i can still hear the laughter
from red stained lips and purple tongues
in a race to be the first to pluck fresh raspberries
from the bushes behind my house.
tires squeal as we name our bikes and
ride them in circles in our limits our parents set so we wouldn't go too far,
our own little world.
chalk coated hands and clothes,
snow down my boots and hot chocolate coating my throat,
singing House Of Gold at the top of our lungs as
we take turns pushing each other
up and down the street in a wagon.
gleeful as we run to the trampoline at the top of the hill,
a glint in our eyes as we shake off our shoes.
ice cream parties with too many gummy bears,
long movie nights crunching Mrs Sarah's perfect popcorn,
birthday sleepovers where Natalie always fell asleep first.
making up dances,
playing with plastic animals,
in awe of what might be beyond the treeline.
and all along,
up the hill,
through the raspberry bushes,
in the highest jump on that trampoline.
behind our eyes,
underneath of the sleeping bags,
all around us.
past the limits our parents set,
past the treeline,
it was us.
it was always us.
YOU ARE READING
Dregs
PoetryDregs: the most worthless part or parts of something. This is a collection of poetry I've written over the last few years as I try to figure out who I am, what I want, and how to get it without killing myself in the process. I'll put trigger warning...
