This My Outline
I am not your straight line,
anymore.
That, has spanned far enough you and I can see from end to end
narrow and cutthroat, so distinct from being traced over again,
not scribbled, mindless, messy swirls and waves that
dance around themselves. Coiling and colorful
like the ink that gets imprinted on my right hand
from drawing.
Your bridge is drawn. (down and solidified already)
Mine I’m learning to rebuild with my hands.
Scarred, bruised, broken, left
by those expectations that don’t even touch me.
Molded, from a reality unspoken between
us. We were trapped by hands that don’t know how to feel,
hands that have never felt, grabbing us straight to get in line
while I was still scrambling for my pen—
Now, I am the lines that run from your eyes,
the lines that stretch and slice your skin.
I am the line of your straight back, with your head high,
shoulders tight, lungs sucked in deep, your blood burning from
pacing forward on this dash (literally.)
Marching with intense fervor unyielding, my stare lingering
behind, the air tight in your throat squeezing you look back,
and— see me. Left here, still drawing an outline.
Zoe Porcia is a rising senior finishing her junior year at Pembroke Pines Charter High School. Although she has been an artist from a young age, she has recently found a love for creative writing and expressing herself through poetry.
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