8th Grade English, 3rd Period
There are poems scratching at the back of my throat.
I write them in a notebook using a purple pen
that smells ever so slightly of bubble gum.
The poems speak of love and lust, and fear and fear and fear.
I am positive when I hear you whisper my name
the fear will slow, the shaking stop and the lust will thaw into trust.
Today I open the notebook and confront how little has changed.