At the edge of our fingertips by Kelly Lenkevich

Home.
That place You run away from in Your dreams,
but always with the reassurance that You can wake up,
and land back in the comfort of Your bed.

“I’m not an investment,” You said,
slamming the door as You abandoned
Your youth for the forbidden.
The hinges were old and worn,
and the door bounced back open, creaking
ever so slightly, letting the ghosts escape.

At the edge of the world—
the gutter where the driveway’s edge
meets the street, black
against white—
You paused to jump off.

In school They taught You the earth
is round. Your eyes protested
it’s flat. Black against white
in an ocean of grey sky.

You crossed over
to the dark side.

When monsters began to fall from the sky,
tiny rain droplets melting into the earth
and growing like weeds—You were not afraid.
“You’re not Real,” You said, knowing
things that aren’t Real, can’t hurt You.

But they can. Time ticked against You,
a bomb counting down. Money fell from the sky—
two-hundred fresh-picked leaves every time
You passed Go. Stop.
Red lights warned You,
Stop.
Octagons, and octo
puses, and pussy
cats, and cat
walks, and run.
Run away.

Home.
That moment where the place You’ve always run from,
becomes place You’re running to.
Your fingertips pushed the creaking door open,
but the ghosts had already escaped.
Nothing was real. Home had disappeared, and You knew

at any moment You’d wake up
in a motel bed,
fingers numb beneath Your aching head
with no alarm to wake them up.

Author bio:

Kelly is an English major at the University of Michigan. She received the Caldwell Poetry Prize in 2010. To read more of her semi-inspirational ramblings, please visit her website: I Am Disenchanted.