The white sweat burns, stiffens my spine,
stains white bedsheets in the shape
of an un-motivated-bothered body.
Standing up, my eyes glazed over
with white static, head flipped
like an hourglass, white chemical
sands trickle and transmit through the hour.
After each cycle of step,
the breath in my chest is white cold;
a vast cathedral with pitter patter hallowing tolls.
Sclera are wide open, red dead trees
spawn against a white sunset.
The skin underneath is wrinkled
like a white water current. Mother
rafts around me. Her speech
is delayed subtitles, white outlines
that blend into bedroom walls.
I pretend I am in control,
watching myself crawl fetal
back into bed. White light
merry-goes round me,
leaves me in the night.
The day is done and I am dirty
like fresh linen. White is the daze
that paints the inside of my head.
CG Marchl is currently sixteen years old and attends Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 as a Literary Arts major. Besides writing, her hobbies include jewelry making, embroidery, and watching movies.