class fourteen

Megan

You sit in class, eyes closed, waving slightly
as a weed in a soft breeze. You’re hoping
you’re not falling asleep, but jolt to a
sudden wakefulness and realize that you
had almost stepped off of the ledge that hangs
between consciousness and the tumble toward

dreaming. I know why you feel so tired.
You went on another adventure last
night. Your whimsied, spontaneous drive to
keep exploring the simple fact that you
are free here shows that perhaps you always
have been. Striking in obvious beauty, your face

is a mask hiding the complexity
of your fear of failure: flawless, it hides
what you never show to others. Still, I
envy more than just your petalled skin: the
adventures that you incite (although you
lack follow-through otherwise), your hollered

embrace of life and those that surround you.
Even that–your devoted following–
becomes a point of my passive envy.
I sometimes try to pinpoint what part of
you draws people in as a bonfire on
a cold, moonless night–and I can only

answer, “It’s just her, it’s just that thing she
has that makes them want her,” and I want you,
too, in spite of it. Those doe eyes, caught in
a spacey stare, your voice at once thrilled and
flattened–you are always singing, dancing,
spinning, leaping. Still masking mood, keeping

all of your depth inside until your mouth
starts releasing the flood of all you’d love
to hide, but forget to. It seems that you
forget so many things: meetings, tests, names–
but always seem to remember your need,
your steady burning for a life on fire.