I looked into my gigantic
walk-in closet and noticed how
there were piles of clothes on the floor
never worn more than twice, or how I had
hats that I lost interest in.
"This calls for a donation box to be
made." I hauled a stack of boxes
from the attic up the stairs and pulled
out a marker, scribbling donation
onto it. I rummaged through the closet,
yanking clothes off the hangers
and throwing them into the boxes.
I was finishing my second box
when I heard the doorbell ring.
"Honey, can you please get the
door? I'm about to go take a shower."
Mom yelled from her bedroom.
I ran down the stairs; my braids
hitting my lower back with each
step. I looked through the peephole
and felt a sigh escape my lips.
"What are you doing here, Charlie?"
I said without opening the door.
"P-Please l-l-let me in. I-I need
to talk to y-you."
"No, I'm mad at you, Charlie."
I turned my back against the door
and crossed my arms.
"P-Please?"
YOU ARE READING
shades of red
Poetrywhen you have too many thorns, all you can do is paint them in red, because, maybe then, they will look like petals [sequel to shades of blue]
