by Lindsay Erin
Underage bodies squirming around in the hot Durham heat,
no real means of relief in sight
because we are locked outside
and have been denied access in.
We must make do with our time here,
so we compose ourselves and strip
to the bare essentials;
swim trunks and flip-flops
and we walk the greening grounds in packs.
I do not belong under the
ivory arches this place is known for,
so I feel much more at home under these oak trees than inside, if I'm being perfectly honest.
I think everyone else does too.
We are here because we are "special" with a capital S,
yet hidden beneath our skin lives the
little parasite of doubt, slowly sucking
away all means of inspiration.
How we caught it, we don't know,
whether it was acquired at birth or
perhaps while we frolicked here in
I now sit inside the kiddie pool, watching the grass that stuck to my ass
float around the cool water. I didn't have to go far to sit in a plastic tub
(my own bathtub would do) but here I feel bliss and the water runs
over my shoulders and through my fingers, as if to cleanse me and tell me it is okay.
I hope it soaks into my pores and kills that little bug,
because for once, I feel like I belong.
Lindsay Erin is an artist in many forms, all of them appearing to be rather short in height. She currently resides in North Carolina and attends the University of North Carolina at Asheville. Lindsay has previously been published in Electric Cereal, Lockjaw Magazine, and has competed in the Pangaea Poetry Slam. Sometimes she gets anxiety in airports. You can follow her on Twitter @thisisntlindsay.