hoards
I know a girl who
owns an entire bookshelf of
poetry books,
but never reads them
for fear of mussing the pages
or staining the paper covers
with fingerprint oils:
a hoard of Cummings and Collins
and Plath and Bukowski,
Hughes and Williams and
Whitman and Blake lined up
like soldiers for a battle.
I watch her stare at them, hungry, a dragon at its hoard, and retreat to my bent pages and stained covers, clutch Angelou and Dickinson to my chest, and dog-ear another corner of another favorite poem.
I watch her stare at them, hungry, a dragon at its hoard, and retreat to my bent pages and stained covers, clutch Angelou and Dickinson to my chest, and dog-ear another corner of another favorite poem.
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finchlings
My name is Jessica and all I can truthfully say about myself is that: a) I am insufferable, b) I take myself too seriously most of the time, c) Being tired isn’t a feeling so much as a character trait, and d) I will fight you if you wanna go, if you know what I mean. I listen to too much music and don’t do enough homework, I think science is amazing and math can quite literally go die somewhere far away from me, and I enjoy chocolate-covered marshmallows. That’s it. That’s my biography.
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