We draw thick outlines,
try to make the colours suit.
Base them on our sisters,
mothers, future daughters.
Cut out the crayon mouths,
create the hands that hold
the Ring Of Roses fast.
In future years,
you'll say you used to know a girl,
who pressed her hand
into the small of your back.
For now, we cut out people,
without meanings.
It is a struggle,
just to make them talk.
Somewhere you are feeling too,
sat in a classroom, making paper promises,
trying to make the outlines neat.
We never seem to make the fingers touch,
and hang them on the classroom wall for
all to see,
or just our mothers at this point.
Hearts,
good and bad intentions,
shining from our sleeves.
