Mine

I remember

the first time I knew

I had a voice.

 

The high school cafeteria,

the salty pizza–the salted pretzels

hanging in the air

as my story concludes,

“And I laid there

until the police showed up,”

To my house? My body

surrounded

by laughter I concocted

how

how can this be?

 

I wash down the salt

with some OJ and try to remember

the last time I told a story

and heard it–

like the cop over my head

cracked open spilling blood

onto the basement floor.

 

Now it’s my friends

at this round table laughing

their way to my insides,

to the heart that thought

not even a phone call

to the local hospital could be

enough

to be heard from across town,

across the street,

across the table

 

I meet eyes

filled with nature’s shadows

giving me a look of acceptance

into how these words

can be mine,

heard

by sixteen year old girls

wondering what to have

for lunch the next day.

 

October 18, 2014

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