The MoveA Poem by Emily GreeneThis is a piece I wrote a little while ago loosely based on what it was like to move from Florida to Seattle in high school. Obviously I had a little fun with the descriptions.
Seventeen. My life was the epitome of perfection and nothing could possibly top being a quintessential, envied cheerleader with friends whose dark makeup dripped sluggishly, smearing their porcelain cheeks as they presented me with goodbye gifts. Moving when I was young, full of zest, and in my prime was a horrendous, foreboding experience. I lugged my loud, crimson suitcase stuffed with every shallow memory of my flawless life to the checkin desk as my closest childhood companion galloped awkwardly across the lobby on her stick-thin legs. The impact of her spindly figure colliding with mine was like a fierce strike of thunder electrically reverberating my stereotypical figure from the heart out through the end of each brittle, over-processed hair. I watched tears overflow from her glassy brown eyes and slosh down her blotchy cheeks untainted, but I didn't cry. No one ever saw me cry. Bushy Christmas trees cloaked the looming mountains of Seattle and the whispering rain sighed on as we drove. Our muted grey house stung my nose with sharply toxic, unblemished paint and my oversized suitcase left quiet scuffs on the ink-black wood floors. My room was foreign. Only a pale blue light was allowed to enter though an innocent, rain-streaked window. As I laid down, the air mattress slowly deflated around me and I allowed myself
to feel. © 2015 Emily GreeneAuthor's Note
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