September 15, 20171 min read

This is a poem that explores a sort of revelation about identity and growth. I wrote it this past summer, which was the summer I graduated high school. The transitionary period from a mild experience to the fast-paced structure of college served to be a difficult but a continuously growing moment.


how the air

grows thin like silk:


today there is no history

behind crushed lungs:


i have made poetry

out of my body.


without regard to my mouth,

(an indentation: crude. unprocessed.)


today there is no one left

to mourn the skin i have shed


the hours ripen

and carve fifty sons


out of unwrought concrete,

(a memorial: cemented. callous.)


today there is no poetry

behind white bone


only the dull finish

to the subdued intonation

of our misgivings.

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Brittany Adames

Brittany Adames is a seventeen-year-old Dominican-American writer. She spends most of her time writing poetry or leaving short stories half-finished.