Lily Bechtold (16)
Land of the Free
Red: this land (not yours), soaked with blood (not yours) that was spilled (is spilling) and dyes rivers a moses hue
Red is the color of a cut-out scream, the shadow that a bullet leaves behind in the air, the sound of a brick through glass
White: every doll in every store, the color of politicians, of paper and paper-thin models in glossy magazines
White lilies at funerals symbolize peace in death—they surround the caskets of those who never saw peace in life
Blue: the color of the sky, spray-paint on walls. Her fingertips, which I can’t kiss in public, after she’s been out in the cold
And blue stands for TV screens, the uniformed borders lining avenues of people who spit hate and flames
Blue is salty tears and almost the end of the rainbow—
Almost the end of the road
Lily Bechtold is a junior in high school. She spends her time taking herself too seriously, writing, and wishing on stars.
Land of the Free
Red: this land (not yours), soaked with blood (not yours) that was spilled (is spilling) and dyes rivers a moses hue
Red is the color of a cut-out scream, the shadow that a bullet leaves behind in the air, the sound of a brick through glass
White: every doll in every store, the color of politicians, of paper and paper-thin models in glossy magazines
White lilies at funerals symbolize peace in death—they surround the caskets of those who never saw peace in life
Blue: the color of the sky, spray-paint on walls. Her fingertips, which I can’t kiss in public, after she’s been out in the cold
And blue stands for TV screens, the uniformed borders lining avenues of people who spit hate and flames
Blue is salty tears and almost the end of the rainbow—
Almost the end of the road
Lily Bechtold is a junior in high school. She spends her time taking herself too seriously, writing, and wishing on stars.