Sarah's Story

Before gym clas one day I asked Sarah
"Are you ready to tackle the rope".
Red hair, swept away effortlessly by a single bobby pin.
"Not today." She said.

It's sickenening sweet how much she undermines herself.
I'm not sure if she's humble or just hallow,
but she looks so effortless in being,
so I didn't say anything.

Her hair so tightley pressed against her scalp,
aching to be taken out;
looks efortless too.
Tiny gym shorts with the words
"Go tigers!"
a smile matching her cheerlead form figure:

Why can't she see what I see.

She ties knots better then she climbs.
Knotting her flaws
and embedding her falls deep into the soft spot of the floor
dents.

We didn't get to the top today.
Or yesterday.
Or the day before tomarrow.
Before we got to that place where lips are inches away from touching
like polar magnets: that didn't belong but we kept pressing towards eachother because
I loved the feeling.
I loved her.

Red hair pressed so tightly to her scalp.
It must be red from blood.
Blood that shrikes in her veins because
red rose lipstick smear in the locker room
runs her cold.

Red rumors run her gazes up and down the hallways,
,in and out of every ear
every door
every
useless
hurtful
word
out of every
useless
cruddy
mouth.

She's better at tying rope then climbing it.
She's better at laughing then being laugherd at.
She's better at hanging high than feeling low.
So maybe that's why tomarrow in the gym she hung so high
her red hair fell down and everyone gased at the top of the ladder that
Sarah climbed during the lunch period that no one had gym and tied the knot
and jumped.