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This month, we present General Writing responses.

It’s been a year

Maybe it’s been a year.

I know this house like

the lines of my mother’s face now.

My life is contained

inside four walls, five rooms,

and three bathrooms, specifically.

A projector in the basement

that we made exactly a year ago.

I don’t know what else to tell you,

except that my cat likes to

sleep next to the couch

in a cardboard box with

glittery purple tissue paper

inside it.

Please know that this is not

a metaphor

for my loneliness.

I don’t need metaphors

to make my loneliness palatable now.

I just want to tell you

that I am sick of my bed

and the glow of my computer screen.

I bury myself under my old interests

like a worn-out blanket,

hoping against hope

there’s some joy that I can pull out

of this threadbare garment.

Blankets used to keep me warm,

but now I’m just using them

to keep the cold out.

I want you to know

that this poem is not a metaphor

for the complexities of my soul.

I want you to know

that I am past metaphors.

I want you to know that my soul

is not complex anymore,

it just craves faces and people…

— Narges Anzali, 15, Weybridge

Excerpted from original. Read complete poem at youngwritersproject.org/node/40025

The girl in blue

The girl in the blue

coat walks by my porch every

day, and she smiles.

She smiles at me.

I have memorized her face,

her dimples, her perfectly straight

teeth, her light skin

with freckles, her green eyes

clouded with gold.

I want to reach out and touch

the soft blond locks of hair

that fall out of her braid as

she walks by.

She hums a tune in a sweet,

clear voice, and she carries her

juice box in her hand, a flower

in her bag as she twirls around.

Every time she walks by,

she takes a sip of juice,

peach-flavored.

Sweet, I imagine.

She does not have a name,

at least not that I know of,

but I long to call her by it.

I long to let the butterflies

beating in my stomach free to

fly above her golden head.

I stare at her, the aching

in my chest almost sweet as

I hear her singing.

My fingers flex, fighting

the urge to reach for hers.

My eyes are glassy with tears

as I breathe quickly, watching her

leave, my heart in her hands.

— Esra Anzali, 12, Middlebury