The Bottle at The Store

I often wonder if the bottle that will kill my mother has made its way to the store.

 

If it’s sitting there on the shelf

 

With its label that took a degree in graphic design to think up 
And its cap securely fashioned on the rim

 

I wonder if the grocery man has hurriedly placed it on the shelf 

Grudgingly thinking of the BBQ it will no doubt end up at 

Sulking as he thinks of the laughs and sunshine

 

He doesn’t know that the bottle will be desperately thrown into the cart

Grabbed by trembling fingers attached to 

A soul searching for answers

 

Wheeled away with recklessness and urgency 

And sped back to a dark room with curtains drawn and cigarette smoke billowing

 

It won’t be popped open amidst contentment and a warm summer breeze

It will be unlatched with a feverish haste and a final cry for help

 

Downed like a poison

that was only ever meant to be for fun

 

I often wonder if the bottle that will kill my mother has made its way to the store

 

And then I pray that it will never make it home.

 

 

By: Amelia Pratt

Age 19

7/6/2017

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Barbie Doll Beauty

Just a quick glance in the mirror before I go, she says.
She runs to the bathroom.
Yikes, nags insecurity. Look at that blemish, it continues. He will be so focused on that that there is no way he will listen to you.
She pulls out more makeup.
Gross, screams doubt. Who told you that that dress would be a good idea? It exclaims. Cover up. No one wants to see that.
Her eyes drift to her closet.
No way, expresses societal standards. You’re bringing a bikini with a waist like that? It says, exasperated. Hit the gym or don’t even think about going swimming.  
Her toes inch for the scale.
When did pimples become points

or

Dresses become deal breakers
When did bodies become contestants and

society the judge

When did beauty become defined as Botox and barbie dolls

Tall

Fat

Poor

Short

Skinny

White

Rich

Black
All have one thing in common:
Human.

By: Amelia Faith Pratt

Age 19

7/6/2017

Paintbrush People

Bristles like achievements and

brush strokes like plans

A handle to grasp

and fingers to guide to way

 

Built up expectations in solid colors and clear lines

meet disappointment in mixture and smears

 

Crystal clear water of hoped-for outcomes is attacked by the brown clouded concoction that is the child of dirty paintbrushes and backup plans

 

But aren’t the most beautiful paintings tied together with blends and faults

 

Miscalculations turned into masterpieces and

accidents adjusted to allure

 

Aren’t the most resilient people sewn up with mistakes and flaws

 

Tainted with do-overs and messy paintbrushes

 

I’d like to think so

 

 

 

By: Amelia Pratt

Age 19