I tend to forget how I gleam from the distance
And how my laugh rings like the sound of a sin.
They stare and observe, taming their sixth sense,
And I can feel as their patience wears thin.
I tend to draw lines where the others once walked,
Recklessly effacing their ghosts from my future.
They want me to love them, they want us to talk.
They want to turn me into a stone sculpture.
I tend to leave first whenever they cut me,
But sometimes the rope is already on my wrists.
The streets whimper quietly, calling me sultry,
And I am not sure how long I will persist.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 