Margins of My Notebook

I could have opened a window

Any of those summers spent sweating,

Throat withered,

Thighs singed

From the scorching leather

Seats of Mom's Minivan.

But something about sticking it out

Felt visceral and artless;

Felt like good practice.

Cars remind me of back seats,

Buildings: of basements.

People: of shadows.

That's the only thing I learned in art class—

"A face is nothing without its shadows."

So I thought maybe,

Maybe this is normal.

And I kept shading

But the thing about granite is,

It wanes eventually,

(There wasn't much to begin with)

So I took solace in erasers

And used them to write poetry  

In the margins of my notebook;

Felt like good practice.

Because if you stay in the margins,

And you stay in the back seat,

And you stay in the basement,

And you stay in the shadows,

There will be more room for other people.

So you asked me what word I would be

In the dictionary.

And I'll bet you were thinking I'd say

A person, place, or thing.

Except some of us were raised to be adjectives—

Here for you,

But not really here at all.

Please,

Don't try apologizing;

I already forgave you.

Please,

Stop searching. Stop telling me I'm a people-person.

Because I know

That just means more people and less person.

And I can tell your first word was a noun,

Bet it dripped off your tongue effortlessly—

Speaking of tongues,

You tasted one that can't taste;

I burnt it on hospital waiting rooms,

False hope,

Scorching words, and

Fabrication.

So when life gives me lemons,

I swallow them whole;

Palette numb, unfeeling,

Deserving, never shaken.

You tasted a tongue that can't taste.

And I read somewhere

That Holocaust survivors died from candy bars,

Because sweets don't sit well

With skeletons.

Well practice makes perfect,

So I crave citrus over syrup,

Suffering over solace

Back seats,

Basements,

Shadows,

This poem that I wrote in the margins of my notebook,

And

Solemnity over you.