Anything At All.

Six Red Marks.

Each stroke striking my secure ways and turns of phrase, pleading with me to read the material and not to be satirical.

Mother won’t see the green tick, the red crosses make her lungs sick.

"You’ll never get a degree. Why can’t you be more like your sister, brother, or me?"

Sit down, stand up, applaud, don’t clap. Be strong, why are you crying? You’re not dying, dust yourself off.

Boys will be boys, your thoughts are just noise.

It’s my fault she has that dry, chesty cough. Coughing up red blood, red marks, red emotion.

I don’t know anything at all.

Five Green Bottles.

Glass is a pretty thing. My friend Noah says I’m boring, I need to live life to the full.

He pulls my arm and says, “What’s the point of education if the desperation for living makes you harsh and unforgiving?”

I put down my notebook.

He has a point. I take the joint his friend extended. I don’t think it’s intended for a girl of fifteen years.

They open some beers in their pretty green bottles and coddle them safely, eyes roaming, hands resting on shaking legs.

I down the dregs and feel warm inside. Warm inside? Warm. Funny word, warm. Is it real? I can’t decide.

I don’t know anything at all.

Four Yellow Stars.

Peeling from the ceiling.

They glow in the dark. It’s dark, they’re shining.

They’re shining, I’m crying.

"You’re not dying, love, lay still I’m not finished."

Oh, ok. He’s not finished. These sheets are scratchy. I want my mum.

I know this song, it’s catchy. I think I need to pee.

I’m so dizzy, I can’t move. He’ll get angry.

Those stars are nice. I like them I like them I like them I like them.

I don’t know anything at all.

Three Black Doors.

The middle one wants to envelop me and develop a new story of sin, not pride.

No place to hide. I can’t go home. I sometimes roam around, writing in my diary. Red marks on the pages, red marks on my arms.

I'm not alarmed, I'm waiting for a good time.

But I don’t have a good time.

People come here for a good time, you know. Dinner and a show.

Mum’s dead. Lung cancer. She always wanted to be a dancer.

I can dance in that room ahead; it reeks of perfume to mask the lifeless souls that work for a gram and a bowl of compliment soup from the damned.

It would be stupid to pass up this opportunity, but clearly

I don’t know anything at all.

Two Pink Cards.

Both addressed to me at work. Strange, I just started here as a checkout clerk.

Did Steph tell? Probably, she raises hell with every passing chance.

I open one, it’s a dance invitation from Uriah.

Ugh, he thinks he’s such a messiah just because his dad is rich.

I’m no snitch, but I wouldn’t need to put words in his mouth for him to chew them up and excrete them down south.

This other card. It’s from Tess. Tess from school? It’s been so long, she was living in Istanbul last I heard.

Haven’t had a word with her in years.

She’s queer, my mum never liked her. Said she was a dyke and I shouldn’t stay in touch.

But I wanted touch. Good touch. On the hand, shoulder, back. Maybe a smile.

I taste bile, the paper is trembling in my hands.

I stand on shaky legs and reread the letter. Each time, it gets better.

I can feel my body, but my head is high. I don’t know why.

I don’t know anything at all.

One White Dress.

It’s mine. It’s my white dress.

I’m a crying mess, but nobody is telling me to dry my eyes.

I know why.

She looks so beautiful and complete. It’s in her eyes, a sweet and unassuming love.

There are a lot of things I want to say, but it’s okay if all I can do is stare at you.

Your eyes hold so many hues. Green, amber, gold, blue.

As blue as the sky today, a perfectly painted Monet, just for us.

I’ve learned that I can make a fuss, no need to discuss what I want to say.

It is all okay. I’m okay.

I know us, I know you, and I know me, too.

I don’t know everything, but I know enough.