I wrote this poem on August 22, 2021:
The phone at the end of the hall.
Long walk to the cubicle that let the outside world in.
But not fully in.
Because we were sheltered.
From wrenches thrown at cars.
From chaos.
From those moments when nice people seem scary.
When you question how nice they were.
But I'm in grade four and my friends won't understand that.
I don't even understand that I think my legs are bug when I sit down because my body size is in my power.
And I can project the life that I want.
If other people see me this way maybe I can make it real.
Maybe it is a dream and I am building real.
So I call my crush from a strange phone.
In a strange hallway. At my halfway house.
And I talk about all the things kids talk about.
Because I am not grown yet.
But I feel it.
The weight of the responsibility.
The weight of the facade.
And I wear it well.
Or I thought I did.
That mask fit so well it's fused to my skin.
Fresh cells have grown over it but it never really fades.
I hear the songs of the times.
Brings me back to those moments.
Brings me back to the season.
Brings me back to bunk beds.
My china doll in the crib.
Our shared bedroom.
How I wished for privacy when my headache made me sick.
And the meatloaf. I never tried it again.
-Amanda
