june-1994

In March of 1984,
I had seen your golden curls for the first time,
You were playing with your dolls and you were wearing your mother’s Marilyn Monroe lipstick,
And I came up to you,
Asking for you to braid my hair that was unbelievably knotty,
And you accepted.
We had a talk about how our favorite barbie was doctor barbie because she was not only “pretty” but also saved those in need,
And then you said how you’ve only heard of barbies but never owned one,
Your mom had other things to do,
And you didn’t see her all day because she was the tooth fairy,
And that you had no idea what a Father was,
I invited you over on Father’s day that year.


In April of 1989,
I had been extremely close to you,
And I was turning 14,
And I invited you to my pool party in celebration,
And you said you could not go,
When I asked you why,
You simply said you were busy,
I fell face first into my cake that year.


In December of 1990,
The brisk air had levitated my worries,
We rode our bikes around the neighborhood at night,
The Christmas lights was our guide,
All you talked about on the ride was about how you resented how your thighs were so “big”
I noticed how every time we went for lunch your dish got smaller and smaller,
You got 5 pants sizes smaller that year.

In September of 1991,
We entered our Sophmore year of high school,
I remember how I never once saw you without grin,
A 6 foot boy from Tennessee had stolen your heart,
And I saw you less,
It wasn’t until October 18th when I saw you exiting the girl’s locker room with drops of sorrow pouring down your cheeks,
Your cheeks that were struck red,
When I asked you what happened,
You said that he desired more out of you,
And that when you shouted “no” he slapped your chiseled cheeks,
I recall not ever being able to look him in the face that year in Earth Science.

In April of 1992,
Your torn up Queen tee shirt was always in my basement,
My home had become yours,
You hadn’t talked to your mom since February,
When we both found out she wasn’t the “tooth fairy” but the lady we had seen on the side of the road,
Giving her body out on discount.
You would always smoke in my basement,
The smell of it would overpower the smell of your cheap perfume,
And one time I told you that cigarettes would wreck you,
You smoked 2 packs a day that year.

In June of 1993,
We had gone to prom,
You looked like an angel that day,
It wasn’t until I found you in the girl’s bathroom that day,
Using makeup to cover up your wrists,
I remember how I screamed out my lungs,
And how no sound came out,
Oh,
The floods that I made with just my insignificant eyes,
And I remember grabbing your fragile arm,
You felt like an ice cube,
You slipped out of me,
And you resembled a skeleton with a skin blanket at this point,
When I washed the make up off your wrists I saw the devil’s scratches had reached them,
I remember how both our faces drowned in red,
And I took you out for ice cream,
I missed out on prom that year.

In June of 1994,
We graduated,
Only the list had one less name on it,
I had lost you three months ago,
You had always been stubborn,
And I guess that your stubbornness could not stop the car from hitting you,
Or you from staying in it’s way,
I remember how much you desired to graduate and leave,
New York City was your dream,
So I went up for you,
“We made it” I whispered,
I was checked into a hospital that year.

Today I rest next to your grave,
I had promised to visit as many times as you visited me in 1992,
Every Saturday,
If I have a little extra money from tips,
I buy a pack of cigarettes,
Placing in the area where your flannel’s pocket would have held in,
And on your birthday I bought you a Doctor Barbie,
She was a beautiful doll,
And all I can remember is you being even more,
I’ve spent sleepless nights,
Writing poetry about how much I was unable to swim in this burden,
But I can never finish them,
And every night this year,
I drown.

—  You’re just a memory