All we signed up for was a half elective credit
What I did not know when I agreed to this class was
The laughs we would inevitably have
Opulent pastries in our sleep-deprived hands
Whispering to each other for summaries of the story you didn't read
Analyses galore, discussion that somehow always found its way
Back to the subject of homosexuality.
Highs and lows, even when only 20 minutes remained on our clock;
Safety; group therapy without insurance cards and co-pays;
Sometimes a book club,
Other times, a social hour,
Always a coven of friends.
The one who wears black (and occasionally other hues)
A ray of individualism
Mind scurrying across galaxies and
Gossiping of Ms. Harris's tortuous ways.
With nuance and crisp enthusiasm,
They always had something gay to say.
The bubbly boba bookworm,
A new piece of media to rave about each week.
She searches meekly through tabs on her laptop
Somehow turning aesthetic whatever she lies a finger across.
Pastel pinks and chit-chats in the middle of lectures
Four diligent eyes peering through glasses.
The beekeeper of our circle,
The princess of purple.
Ember eyes that watch our daily chaos unfold
Rounding us back on track when we go too far.
Comments on the form, the structure,
Never failing to rip a short text into confetti.
Formally known by only one name,
Our group calls her by two.
The silliest, the scrunkliest, with a "Yipee" to punctuate every paragraph.
And her cadence,
Her agile tone-switches from casual Redditor to New York Times journalist
Our minds have forever linked her presence
With any and all birds.
A cuddly young woman with ambition and wonder,
Arms eternally open for affection.
Her lack of time management skills never slow her down,
For her mind is always running, treadmilling, eager to explore.
Conversations skidding off gears, venturing into something that
Definitely isn't literature.
How could I ever forget our loving teacher?
More than a mentoring friend that I'd hope her to be
Forever spoiling us, even when we are behind and unproductive.
Only one glance at you
And she can tell when you're upset.
Her mild words about her freshmen, most always the period prior,
Her struggles, we all sympathise with.
Sometimes, she feels more motherly than I would like to admit
And I daydream about her warmth, her embrace.
There will always be me,
A pillar in our heptagon,
Just as jovial as the rest.
With my fixation on purple prose
And something anti-capitalist to say,
Never missing a chance to stress my hatred of human males.
But it seems our clique has come to an end.
Not the friendships we made
Or the stories we annotated
Or the feeling of being locked in that van on the highway
This was always bound to end.
It was only a half credit class, afterall.
YOU ARE READING
An Enigma Is Too Much For A Cat To Eat
Poetrypoetry from the raw heart of a teenage girl. I wrote this poetry collection throughout my junior year of high school, when so much change was underneath the sun's aura. In and out of depression, in and out of the psych ward, I survived the first ha...
