First published in Poet's Choice.
Hands on a hard body, that’s what we were
A tangle of broken bones,
souls slowly interwoven into
something beautiful, a thread, a photograph, maybe
I like to think that we were beautiful
And I don’t like to think about what more we could’ve been
That those hands, strangely soft
might’ve held the ones that belong to me
Might’ve merged into one
body
one beating rhythm of possibility
But now we hold nothing
And that thread must’ve frayed because
I feel our souls
slipping
away from the other as they dance on the brink of strangerdom
And this body
Is empty.
Lucy Steward is 16. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and has appeared in Humans of the World, The Autoethnographer, and elsewhere. Her first novel should be done soon. She is a classically trained pianist, a songwriter, and in a rock band. Lucy lives in New York City with her little sister and parents. She loves a good night's sleep.
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