All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
a gentle stranger,
travels down your curving spine,
gooseflesh following her hungry tongue.
/you taste like smoke/
and you smile softly into
You used to pluck your eyelashes out like
dying daisy petals,
unaware that they wouldn't ever grow back.
You cried for hours when you first heard,
into your silken sheets,
then bought a tube of mascara. It was
like teeth rotten by cigarettes;
you never go anywhere without it.
Her fingers pass through the dip
of your back,
where freckles splay out onto
thick hip bones with fading pink circles.
/these are different/
and waits for a response.
Your hair is luscious,
down your back; you don't owe
one stands any explanations,
not with a mane like yours,
something that took you years to grow.
She seems kind, though;
her voice is gentle and prodding,
her fingers lightly caressing the marks.
You rest your chin on your left shoulder,
/I used to pick at my skin. I
never believed my mother when she warned me
about scars. She's smug now, I'm sure./
She rolls the words over in her mouth,
tasting the easy lie.
For a moment, she seems doubtful,
but she says nothing.
Her swallow is palpable in the cold room,
and she kisses both of your hips.
Maybe she's known what they look like;
to be a girl with the desire to ravage her own skin,
to take a long drag, poisonous cigarette held
in scarred fingertips,
You stopped caring a long time ago
if the people you held were whole;
maybe she stopped caring, too,
if she would wake up next to a
You try and imagine the
curve of her mouth,
waking to blue silence,
but you know it'll never happen. She'll
wake up to fresh cigarettes in the ashtray,
cherry still smoking,
and mascara stains on her pillows.