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pathway   Home arrow Poetry for Survivors arrow red leaves and Robert Frost by Katie

red leaves and Robert Frost by Katie
     Submitted by Katie: colbalt-rain @ deviantART - www.colbalt-rain.deviantart.com
    When I was young, my virginity was sacred. Entire religions pray over it and my father bought a gun so long as it meant protecting it.

    We throw away half of our refrigerator each week – meanwhile, 24,000 people die of starvation every day.

    Hardest part is, sometimes wasting things can't be helped.

    At the bus stop, before I could drive, boys would ask for my phone number while I tugged up the neck of my shirt. Asked me how old I was while I crossed my legs under my skirt.

    I told them I had a boyfriend even when it wasn't true, because they'll always respect another man more than my disinterest.

    Hearing "I love you" for the first time is like getting hit by a train and only feeling the angel as they pull you up to Heaven.


    People who are manic can jump off roofs or sell their house to buyers who don't exist.

    For me, it was fucking six guys in four days and spending $150 in three.

    That wasn't good enough, though, so instead of help all I got was a smiley-face sticker and long, quiet car ride home.

    Whenever I drink before class in the library now, the librarian thinks I don't notice her watching.

    "Give her some room," she said last year, when I nearly passed out right before the bell. "I know these bipolar kids, caffeine can trigger them."

    I always liked that – "trigger." Like stress is a detonator. Loud noises are gunpowder. Coffee is a bullet and we're just too fucking nuts to realize that we're a gun.

    Meanwhile, I don't drink caffeine, or even coffee. I drink hot chocolate. And seeing her silent terror every morning would almost be funny if it didn't hurt so much.

    Todd stopped speaking to me when we turned seventeen. After I told him that I didn't want kids.

    I never told him that I loved kids. Or that I was bipolar. Or that I loved them enough to never give one a twenty-five percent chance of living with the same mistakes as I have.

    To that boy from tenth grade who held doors open for me: no, asking me to "go off lithium for a while" so you could fuck me is not gentlemanly.


    Last year in Poetry, for the final assessment we wrote down our biggest secrets, put them in a box, and buried them out on the school lawn.

    Most of it was drugs and sex and betrayal going into the ground like a bad soap opera. But mine wasn't. Mine was that I hated poetry.

    Life is confusing already without trying to figure out what red leaves mean, or why Robert Frost took the road less travelled (or, if I take it, if it's too late to make any difference at all.)
    An administrator at my high school used to offer to walk me to the cafeteria every day. He'd beg me to stay calm when the strawberry Pop-Tarts ran out, until I finally punched him in the face.

    Because helping me does not require an asterisk.

    My boyfriend loving me is not a fetish.

    My flaws don't make me beautiful – they just make me flawed.

    Being crazy isn't a fucking fashion statement.

    Also, maybe I don't hate poetry. These days I'm starting to appreciate those red leaves and Robert Frost.

    Because I've still got miles to go before I sleep.
     Thanks to Katie for submitting this poem to Whitedovesnest.com. This poem has received a high award for literature on www.deviantart.com "Daily Deviation". Congratulations Katie.
 
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