This time I figured id go for my own version of We Real Cool by Gwendolyn
Brooks. i took note of the repeating "we" inside her poem and was wondering if I could improv that same punch with a different pronoun.
She weeps like she’s nineteen, catching
glimpses of tears floating like almonds
after a monsoon. She collapses
her lungs
into her chest and they sink low enough
as if to be dissolved in
the earth.
She had water lodged in
her lungs,
Bubbles caressing the folds of her skin.
The way how the blue of her veins run
disjointed up
her arm. Blotched, no gingerly stamped colors,
No raunchy
browns. Just ruined mascara
trays litter her
dresser. She paints her face
like she’s four. Rubbing velvet into black.
She splashes until she's portrait-less, then weeps.
Not like visor knitted black bonnets,
but encrusted
six tier crowns of prom days.
She silently lets her finger-paint run.
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