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ungifted -- poetry by Zelda Abramovich


I see my reflection in the puddles of bathroom stalls,

smile a toothy grin

maw opening, wide to swallow, me whole,

so I scramble back

But i'm oh so hungry for another glimpse

of a contoured face,


On one coordinate plane we originated,


that gas station bathroom 30 minutes off the I-90 where I scrubbed rainbow face paint off my cheeks

because we hated your questions that we knew only had one answer,

like how does a pen work and why did grandma die and why does everyone expect me to be gifted.



I’m ungifted.



I stop in the middle of the freeway, shatter my bedroom window, tell my brother to take out the trash when what I really mean is I love you and I know you are gifted and I will write about the world you change


So, when I delete my poetry I don’t cry watercolor,

I create bone.


 

Zelda Abramovich is a 16 year old poet and junior in high school. She has written for Scholastic Choices, Illustoria Magazine, Teen Ink, and various local art organizations. A proud youth ambassador with Just Buffalo Literary Center she believes in run on sentences and that the poems you are taught in school will never be as good as the ones you find yourself.


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