I don’t want to see

by Georgina Davis

Blurry ceilings in the morning, so safe,

and maybe today I just don’t want 

to shift the world into focus. 

Stretch my other senses for a while;

symphony of shuffles down the front path,

a taxi that smells like felt tips,

sleeping sister, her son stares out the window

while my mom makes small talk with the driver:

“My mom passed away last December.”

Headlights on the road like fireworks –

“Just sitting there and then…”

Draw a smiley face in the car window condensation –

“Only 61 years old.”

Glass blends into sky where the window is cracked open –

“I guess, when your time comes, it comes.”

Red light under a bridge, black and yellow stripes,

not stripes to me but colors, flowing into colors,

and maybe one of the blurry cars on the blurry bridge

will swerve and topple onto us, 

and the car will be blurry no more, 

because I can see things when they’re right in front of my face. 

Green and go and we are gone, safely through,

blurry cars stay blurry, we stay alive. 

I am alive and I don’t want to see my world burn,

so I’ll let colors bleed into colors,

lights can stay explosions.

I will stay blind to the sharp edges and 

let the world be soft, hug me instead of hurting me. 

Georgina Davis is a 23-year-old creative writing graduate from Birmingham. She mainly writes free-form confessional poetry that depicts the small details and big feelings of everyday life.