Isabella

17

Tower Room

the grass in the front yard was dead and brown.
her hair when she looked in the mirror
smeared with grey cloud dirt
was burnt charcoal
bonfires from heated afternoons
in the summer with hated neighbors.

her sodden knee-socks were the dull grey
of that distorted
metal ticking thing on her nightstand.

chilled toes rested on the radiator
halted movements and trapped breath
murmurings downstairs.

her mother’s eyes were bitter and sharp
a scoop of vanilla ice-cream dripping
onto the linoleum tiles of the kitchen table
and curdling like sour milk in between the plastic cracks.

the pencils that rested by her homework were filed to cruel points.
far too many times she watched her calloused fingertips
jamming one with surgical precision
into her wrist
and pictured herself
lying on her bed with her arms like an angel’s wings.

her windowless room faced away from the sun
so she could never pretend her eyes
were slitted cat’s pupils glowing with the light.

some mornings she would imitate sleep
blank eyes and greasy skin
pallid with the drought of renewal
just so the people she shared her life with
would leave her alone
to pretend she had a purpose
among the bleary sunrise tears.

the cracked driveway pavement
lusted over the tire tracks
engraved into its skin
and she watched the skidding families
as she sat with her wrists tied in silk scarves
in her empty tower room.