The Ladies I Share Walls With

I remember the time five of my friends

and I used a monitor as a karaoke machine

and blasted high school musical songs so loud

that we could be heard from the streets below.

We had colorful strobe lights going from

a small machine she had. It was her room.

Everyone could see us.

As people made their way back

to their 95 square foot homes,

boxes of snacks in hand,

they would look up at the green-glowing,

 blue-glowing window that tone-deaf screeches

seemed to emerge from.

The inside of the room was warm, the window

was open for just a glimmer of a breeze

while we jumped up on her bed and off again.

This was the purest moment I’ve ever known.

The sweat was rolling down my back

as I took her waist and forced a kick line upon us.

I was 7 years old again, in my Miley Cyrus pajamas,

singing my heart out. I was off-beat.

And there were five other girls to do that with.

We screamed and shrieked.

It was the safest I have ever felt.


Looking out the window,

the night seemed to darken with each

passing song and the waves of people

flooding back home seemed to slow.

As they grew tired, we sprouted with energy.

From the third floor we looked out every now

and then to notice the walk to be empty.

Now the long hill down to our dorm was

intermingled with only the light of streetlamps

that keep girls like me, and girls like her from

getting attacked every Wednesday night.

They don't always work.

Sometimes that's why we need strobe lights

on the third floor of a cement building.

Because that's the only light I'll ever trust again.

This poem is about: 
My community


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