i. 

Born to be anything, or everything, she 

Crashed into the hands of a mother who 

She had only just met. Her life started with 

A bang, coming into the world kicking 

And screaming- probably- and with a sigh of relief. 

  

When the breath of her voice reaches my face, I see 

Gray and black and cloudy days. I feel 

The simplicity of her life, but also 

The yearning for more, the inexcusable demand for Success, and the uncontrollable desire 

For something more than the dull life she had been 

Thrown into. 

  

Through the vibrations in the air, my brain depicts An image of car rides and loud music and  

Floral print and Converse. I don’t see her  

Though, but rather a version of a storybook Character in a period piece from not too long ago. 

  

And I don’t know her. She’s never introduced herself to me. 

I am only slightly familiar with her frame because of the stories 

Recounted by those who 

Lived like her, and knew her, 

And by those who would recognize her walk and her stare and Her laugh. 

  

I wonder if she laughed. 

  

 

ii. 

Thinking her way 

Into the life she dreamt about, 

She finally felt free enough 

To do everything she had 

Never done. 

A needle punched through the cells of 

Her skin, but only once. 

The music she had only listened to in 

Solitary now pulsed through her bones, 

And the floorboards, of one of The Great 

College Town Bar Scenes 

Sitting on the side of 

The hill. 

  

But her life didn’t dissolve into a simple 

Mound of unnecessary and chaotic 

Fun. The person she was 

Before leaving the town of dull blues 

And grays and no sunshine, 

Stuck with her throughout her studies 

And sat deep inside her at the core of 

Her unshakeable morals and 

Was the apex of everything she had ever believed in. 

  

I wonder what she loved. 

  

 

iii. 

I didn’t know her back then- back 

When she was wild, back when she was  

Free (of rules, of worry, of the constraint of time)- 

But I know her now. 

I know her better 

Than the stories her 

Best friend tells, 

And he repeats narratives more often than he should. 

  

I no longer wonder if she would laugh 

At the string of words I weave together in my brain, but instead, 

I hear the angelic pitch of the sound 

That forces 

An upside down frown 

Onto my face. 

  

The weight of her uncharacteristically 

Disastrous combination of genetic makeup 

Brings the shades of gray that 

Only appear before the first crack 

Of thunder, whose only intentions are to bring 

Depression to the innocent and 

Hatred to the loved. 

  

This gray comes in the absence of the violet 

Undertones of the sky just before the sun sets. 

This gray is without the purity of the clouds 

That drift by one by one, and stand out against the 

Stark blueness of a crisp day. 

This gray has no explanation. It’s just a feeling I get  

When the possibility of death covers me like a blanket, but I’m already sweating. 

  

Don’t worry, though, 

  

I’m not still wondering if she laughed.