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SIXTEEN NOtHING

like a sparrow, ·the day flitted by dull brown _
Nothing to catch one's eye.
I walked back along the dirty street
and in a narrow/space
between old brick piled high like compost.
Old Tyler sprawled upon the bench,
Thunderbird spilled red about him.
Were you really .a hero once?
April's breeze caressed my face with malice .
My feet spiraled up the choking staircase
as choking words of anger spiraled down
and I walked right between them,
their anger piled high like compost.
I lay still Upon the bed and
spilled red blood about me.
Was I really once that princess?
... I sliced my flesh with malice.

Mia Whittle

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