Here is a poem I wrote last year in my poetry class. I haven't revised it since, but it is one of my most personal and intimate poems.
A Poem for an Unmade Bed
homesick in the comfort of my adolescent bed.
december. midnight. thirty-one days of freezing cold.
cracking knuckles. red. jumping on cracked sidewalks. black. and
back to when i cocooned inside covers. at least i can feel the chill now.
goosebumps.
seven-thirty in the afternoon. chamomile in a chipped mug
too hot to the touch. pink fingertips turn the page and i sigh
that i can’t write a poem when i open the windows
anymore. but at least i let the light in.
sunset.
scratched out lines. rambling in the margins. writer’s block.
and then i think of him. who touched me too soon.
sometimes i think i’m right to feel so angry and blue.
but a coffeeshop full of missed opportunities turns me back to green.
chameleon.
never yellow, a constant grey, and headphones pouring out
white noise. i hum along until the crack in my voice, and
close my eyes, that’s when i see it all: neon lights in a
pitch black house. ash trays, coffee stains, an unmade bed.
muse.
last week. pretending to sleep under the glow of string lights.
tapping her lilac nails to the beat of a song i hate. country. but
i listen along anyways. there’s not too much to mind when i’m
bathed in bliss. a new face but a best friend. tranquil. blitzed.
warm.
as good as it gets but the best its ever been. still, i’m golden now
and take my time with each line and feel everything for the first
second time. only once broken, please remind me again.
at least everyone can agree that i’ve changed.
metamorphosis.
