He smiles like grease.
A crater by his eye like his skin was sampled
by a teeny tiny spoon.
He hides his shame behind long bronze hair,
but is still brave enough
to hold my hand.
Knuckles like marbles – maybe rocks.
Boy was a real heart throb.
Or more like a heart attack.
No amount of Ajax could
rescue this fourteen year old girl
from cutting Spanish class to walk down Himrod
hand in hand only to get home and
not talk on the phone
with Mr. Vegas in the background.
– Rachel R. Vasquez, 6/1/2015
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
No comments here. Just memories of a fourteen year old girl getting walked home by her boy. 🙂
I still feel like I can work on this more. For now, it is what it is.