This is Not About a Fish
By Olivia Mead, Age 16, Williston
I knew I wouldn't have you for long;
you were a carnival fish...
Yet I bought you food and kept my eyes on you.
When I tapped on the glass, it scared you,
but I needed to know you were there.
Some days I would convince myself you'd live forever.
Other days I stared painfully at the cold glass,
watching your brightly colored scales pass
until I was left crying, pretty positive you were dying.
But the truth is
you were not the one to die first.
I was.
With every stabbing thought of you floating to the surface
a part of me died
and it fueled you in a way,
promising you'd stay.
But my best parts went first and soon I was not me
and you swam away
with the parts of me you had taken woven tightly in your fins
and I grabbed at you but you were slippery
and your slime stuck to me
and now all the other fish are harder to catch.
