by Mackenzie Game
I like to feel like I’m locked in a closet, and it is warm but not suffocating and I feel the walls from all sides but they are not moving, or pressing down on me. They are just there. I like to feel the weight of everything, on my chest on my lap. Like a dog that falls asleep on your legs, welcomed but not forced, and it is just enough pressure that you can sleep. You can sleep. I like to bring the hair back from around my ears, covering the edges of my face until I can barely see my paper in front of me. I like to write through the curtains of my hair, I like to only see what I want to. I like that people can’t see me. I like to sit in the back of my classes, my back against the wall, my backpack in between my legs, them crossed tightly to keep myself together. I like to stick my hand in between my two twisted thighs, I like to feel the pressure on my hand, I like to see the marks from my corduroy pants. When I sleep I like to wrap myself in blankets and sleep with one hand under my pillow, one wrapped around my stomach. I sleep in the fetal position, against the wall. My twin bed is too big for one body.
Mackenzie Game is a teenaged writer who plans to live and write in Edmonton forever. She hates math. She loves worms.
Capital City Press Anthology 