Kelly Forsythe

I have stickers on my arms by Lisa Frank.
Glitter on my shoulder. I turn & reflect
against a trophy case. Something else—you—       
also in reflection. Two boys, boy, boy.

You both have hair like warm carpet.
I could hide under your hair.
I am shining with holograms of fake bears.

I walk to the exit talking excitedly.
I open the door and throw myself out
of a window. The window was broken or
I broke it with my cheek. I land at two 

pairs of shoes. I look up to your
eyes but they are headphones. You 
play music from these about adhesive.
My arms and legs are stuck together,

nothing is moving except my hair. It
is blonde with glue. Both of you
lay down beside me. We watch clouds
to find bear shapes. I can feel us

wanting to hold hands. I roll onto
my side and fall off a chair, under
neath a table. On top a biology
book next to a yellow name tag.

Many yellow name tags, tags
on the floor next to caution tape.
You both are gone down some stairs
with the carpet torn out.






My poem is inspired from a project I am currently working on regarding the Columbine High School shootings. The two teenage shooters and their complex relationship were the primary inspiration for the poem, as were images of the yellow body markers (tags) in the library after the shooting.