As a neuroscientist, I am fascinated by mental health, consciousness and perception, as well as the psychology behind human relationships.
Lunch Queue Daze
To know that something brews during your twelfth year
has you disconcerted, not scared.
Amber stands by you, a golden halo surrounding her body while you two wait to be served.
She is not your friend,
Nor is this a friendship.
But in the preteen haze of lunch, boundaries dissolve -
And you can ask her about her dog.
Stung by sharp replies, you scan posters you have read before,
But it's fine.
She isn't your friend, nor could this be a friendship;
That much you know.
She'd need scraped knees and frizzy hair for that,
but she has hazelnut eyes:
A fully-formed girl.
"Friendships aren't intense", says your mother, stern,
but Charlotte pulls you to dizzying heights.
To use that name
As if she could be your English neighbor
Is an insult,
When she is clearly more
At sixteen, chilling revelations
For this is a one-off;
How could feelings so numinous
Symbolize a trend inherent to your nature,
When this is about her
And her magic.
Ethereal and sickening, she glimmers
All angel quartz: your mother's right.
A cocoon of teenage surrealism
Shields you from truths,
But not from feelings,
Nor from the lump in your throat of
Painting your lips crimson.
Friends and green tea taste grey
After the implausible luster
Of sardonic wit
And a nose ring.
At twenty-one she came, mystic as elves;
People tell you who they are
If you listen,
But a noncommittal forest fire
Only when the spell shatters
Can your white-hot sobbing end;
Corridor smirks start to reek of artifice,
And her candy-blue hair
Ecstasy and pain may be one,
To never part,
But two girls who share wounds
© 2019 Lucy