Poetry: The Flood

Zachary, the alarm left me too, ran straight off without saying goodbye.

Our sister had to wake me, half an hour too late, a quarter too early.

 

The strap of my backpack snapped as I flung it to the ground.

The thing’s falling apart and soon it’ll only be duct tape and words plastered loosely together.

 

Breakfast was only a half-remembered dream by the end of first period.

My stomach growled all during class, insistent on answering the bonus question regardless of the stares.

 

And as I scrambled to complete the Trigonometry calculations I’d “forgotten,”

I watched them all.

 

And I thought of you, I thought of us.

The two of us and our pens and our words and our freedom.

 

They’re nothing but mannequins, smiles and greetings, plastic and lies.

Their words are empty;

A song stuck on replay, sung again every day and received like the next big hit.

 

The masks never slip, even though the paint is chipping.

All it would take is one weighted word,

One word truly thought and truly meant, to reveal the cracks.

 

So as I listened to the empty wisps of air drift away in the remnants of a melody, I wondered if you noticed it too, the mechanic hugs and programmed laughs of the cold metal frames.

 

Why do you think they’re like that?

I bet you know.

And I think I might, too:

 

They

Are

Trapped.

They

Are

Afraid.

 

Afraid of writing their own code, that came from their own head, their own thoughts.

Their own ink breaking the conformist dam, releasing the flood of hopes, dreams, desires.

 

And I was grateful that for you and I, the flood came a long, long time ago.

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