Instincutal

• Sarah Green, Grade 11
• Poetry
• 2017

With my neck craned my head is forced low,
My finger finds itself tracing the imperfections of my body.
They were alive, constantly growing,
rising to corners of my body I never knew existed.
I wish I could withstand derogatory.
But, you will observe the forever stained marks and scars.
The expression of words on your behalf,
Will be limited, for knowing what to say is impossible.
No one smiles to each other anymore.
I’ve noticed as you waltz the eery street your eyes will meet another
in which they will divert suddenly to the glaucous undergrowth beside you,
that no one would have bothered to look at beforehand.
It’s like that now.
So with my head forced low I continue to drown my body in hurtful tints.
And so the next time when your eyes automatically divert,
Force your head high, and witness the miracle expansion of one’s lips.