Martine, 16, Framingham, MA
I step outside, and my suburban streets tell me stories.
The sound of my footsteps works in tandem with the wind,
And the trees tilt their long necks into the road to eavesdrop on the last wanderers.
The vast expanse of sky stretches over hushed roads and barren cul-de-sacs
Like taut skin over protruding bones, and
The canopy of intertwined branches above cuts up the sky into shards of baby blue.
As I walk, the world is mine to scrutinize for the answers to all my questions,
But this is a world tucked inside apartment buildings and enclosed under sloping roofs,
A world confined in square footage and haunted by fleeting apparitions whispering about the unknown.
We tread across our suburban neighborhoods alone,
The snap of a branch or the gentle graze of the wind against the backs of our hands curdling our rushing blood.
And we thin out like an aging scalp, plagued with a crumbling world that keeps us up at night,
Running its nails down our backs and taking apart our lives and letting the blood run down,
Pooling in our collarbones and reflecting back images of our worst fears that close our doors and keep them shut.
I step outside, and we’ve grown farther and farther apart now.
You’ve grown distant,
The way you cling to the other side of the street like a flitting moth to a lantern when you see our paths converging.
I wonder what spirits have wracked your frame so violently that
The streets we grew up on together seize you in the night
And the echo of my lace-up boots sends chills down your spine.
Through my kitchen window,
The wind weaves between the blades of grass and ruffles the frail shrubs like a mousy head of hair.
The evening rain tiptoes out on light feet, leaving the air buzzing with electricity.
I see crocuses poking through the sodden earth, purple and alabaster blossoms arising from their slumber
Only to find the world blanketed with a heavy silence,
Tricycles and sprinklers strewn about over unkempt lawns, the bloody carnage of a war that never happened.
Souls breathing the same air behind drawn curtains, inhaling and exhaling
With the hopes that one day, these streets will be theirs again.
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