Fifteen

"she's not all that," they say behind me, soft,

but I hear them loud and clear like sirens.

what do I care, as I left them and scoffed,

dreaming up poems that may rival Byron's.

*

just like that I spend a season alone,

ignoring calls from all former besties.

my mom may tell me to pick up the phone,

but I say that I'm so much more at ease.

*

yet June bleeds to July in a trickle,

as I lose myself in book after book,

and I hate myself for being fickle

to miss the once-friend space, my special nook.

*

solitude summer, I do not miss you,

and so I'm not sorry to say adieu.