Written 8/5/17
The blades of grass
tickle at my ankles,
and I wonder where you are right now.
I wonder if it hurt.
We lost contact years back,
but we used to be close.
In the same band together,
I slept right next to you
on the hard floor that Friday.
I was scared the whole night.
No one knew, except maybe you.
We both got kicked out of the band,
but survived that weekend.
You didn't survive this one.
Farm-to-Market Road 1788
6:49pm
You were number twenty-four
to die on that road
this year.
The twenty-fifth was claimed
one hundred and eighty-one minutes later.
Fate,
Destiny,
Your time.
Whatever the mantra,
you're gone at only nineteen years old.
I thought you were interesting.
You used to get bullied
for having one and a half legs.
Your prosthetic always had the prettiest
designs and colors.
You had an advantage
over your siblings
because if they kicked your shin,
you didn't feel a thing.
You were so self conscious about it,
but I thought it was cool.
I know it was, by definition,
a defect,
but I thought it made you unique.
I never told you that.
I wish I did.
Waiting to turn left,
the seconds ticked by,
and closer came your death.
In the center seat
of that maroon Subaru,
in a moment here too soon,
your leg would grow
to be like the other one
and your wings
would poke through your back
to carry you to a place
where there are no plastic legs
or people to tell you you're broken.
Only peace, and freedom to run.
v.e.s.
A/n:
RIP
H.F.
you will be missed.
YOU ARE READING
Cardboard Lungs
Poetry"Demons floating in my morning cereal." "Ink isn't the only thing bleeding tonight." A collection of my poetry. *I do not promote self harm or any other negative coping skills. My poetry is my outlet for preventing those actions in my own life, so I...
