I'm told I need to study, because you realize that AP testing starts next week? But I say "no, just give me a tall glass of orange juice and let me sleep for 27 more days."
My mom tells me to clean my room. She can barely see the floor. And also, maybe I should do my laundry once in a while and then I'll have something to wear. "No thank you, wearing the same oversized sweatshirt for a week and a half is fine with me. But I'll take an ice cold orange juice."
We're kind of a thing, this sweatshirt and I.
You see, I always have "such damn cold hands." I guess I have poor circulation. I guess my heart can't pump my blood to the ends of my fingers and the tips of my toes. Hot, flowing blood could warm my hands better than his sandpaper palms or my ugly, old sweatshirt.
Maybe my hands would warm up and start to sweat, and all my worries and fears would run from my heart, through my bloodstream, and down to my sweaty palms. Maybe they would all dissolve and slip out of my body.
I bet if you tasted my sweat it would taste like salt and heartache, and if I touched your skin it would turn bright white and I would leave a warm colorless handprint. It would linger for a few seconds before it began to fade away.
Do you think you would talk to me then? Isn't that what you want? Isn't it? Weren't you just talking about how all you want is to be heard? You don't want to fry a fish; you just want someone to listen to what you're saying. You've got something to say and goshdangit! You want to say it.
Well, kid, all I want to do is listen. You see? I've already heard you. I'm already listening.
But you weren't talking to me, were you?
So I guess I'll keep on wearing this retro sweatshirt, and counting out beats in sixes, and using up the ink in my pen, because even though I'm not a poet, I've been writing poetry all along. I may not be a musician, but I keep on singing the same old song over and over and over, and it says "everything is gonna be alright."
And maybe it will. Even though my hands are still freezing, there's a whole lot of hope running through my veins, right along with the hurt and the fear and the orange juice.
"J'ai besoin d'un boisson."