Poetry: Girl at the back of the bus

I think the girl at the back of the bus is crying again

her eyes blend with the rain

like a watercolor painting

in swirls of stormy gray

her cheeks press against the window

glowing silver under the haze

soft as spring petals

and just as thin

strands of her ink-black hair

drape over her murky eyes

smooth as silk curtains

too delicate to touch

her breath fogs over the glass

mist like minty kisses

undoing the reflection

of faded scars on her wrist

her friend sits beside her

consumed to her phone

oblivious to the girl staring into the rain

and her heart crying out

the boys in front of her

busy wresting over sports

too wounded by each other to glance behind

at her fabric wings bleeding out

no one notices the girl at the back of the bus

each one absorbed in their own demons

to hear the silent wails

from her soul dying out

the girl at the back of the bus is dead

the girl at the back of the bus has departed

flown away in her fabric wings

for the girl at the back of the bus was never real

i created her to help me recognize

the pain I was putting myself through

i hid at the back of the bus

because there no one could kick me

from behind my seat

but by isolating myself

alone in my bubble 

i had lost people who loved me

people who supported me

and i had lost myself