Fibers

He pulls the truck over
and on the side of the road
he holds me.

I shudder out a breath
as the tears spill slowly
from eyes to chin.

I am breathing through my nose,
vain attempts to steady myself
afraid if I exhale
I may shatter his lips
with the
quiver of my mouth.

His kisses are short and tender,
deliberate
as if extracting venom from
a snake bite.

The toxic debris of
news that leaves my chest
tight from the refusal of heaving.

and I wonder
if one day

this

is what my children will feel.
Constriction and confusion
as they are held by arms that love them.

Parts

The first strike felt like fire. It spread hot over Hunter's face, quick and searing. Through blurred vision he could still see the smudge of flesh, the outline of the next swing coming. The impact against the bridge of his nose caused him to drop to his knees. Oh please. He thought. You've got me down, please don't keep going. A left foot to the square of his chest assured him the beating was not yet over, and he slipped backward, his chest ringing out in pain. His hands scuttled across the cement, his back arched, and for one ridiculous moment he almost looked like he was attempting a stretch from Mr. Otis' P.E. class. His crab shaped figure quickly gave out, and he thumped down on the concrete, limbs splayed out wildly, defeated. A laugh was heard through his left ear, and a final kick delivered to his side. His eyes stayed shut as he heard the footsteps grow quieter with each second.
His glasses were skewed awkwardly and his hair was matted with sweat. In his mouth he tasted copper, rust, or maybe it was just his blood.
A bell trilled in the background and his heart sank. He was late for third period. The sinking feeling grew lower, settling around his stomach as he realized his new clothes were most likely ripped. What will I say to Mom?
A moan escaped from his mouth. It was a sound he was ashamed to claim as his own. 

Miles

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat as the nighttime descends around the moving vehicle. The truck rides alone, two headlights shining their way home against a rapidly dimming sky. The smell of flavored cigar smoke entrances her senses and lulls her into a state of almost-sleep, and so she moves ever so slightly again. She promised herself she would stay awake for the trip home, and not leave her companion awake by himself. She felt after all he had done, sleeping would be a poor thank you.
Her hand slipped across her side of the cab as she curled her fingers around his. Her body was oddly pulled to his, a magnet to his smooth skin. She laid her head into his shoulder and exhaled. His thumb lovingly stroked her index finger as their hands entwined and the feeling was so blissful it was almost intoxicating.
Her neck stretched into his arm for one more moment and then she straightened up. As she nestled into a position that was the most comfortable she allowed herself to think of when they first met.
They had each been different people then, and she briefly wondered when it was that they had become connecting puzzle pieces.

X's

The problems
          we had
could
     never
         be
solved.
Such division of
heart
   and
      mind.

And
my
mother.
Tells me
     the only way
     to bring positivity
back
    into
my life.

Is to do some
subtraction
and
   the look
on
  her
    face
makes me understand
that
            she
is right.

But I am scared.
Afraid this
decision
will bring
negativity to
my
life.

For he has
this
   probability
a ratio
   on his side
in which he knows
just
how to
graphically push
my
  buttons.

He is so
   manipulative
and
   twists me in ways that
leave
   remainders
on my skin

and he angles
his words
so that
they sound absolute,

have
my love
and
my logic
       running
parallel paths,
unable
to meet
   at

one
 
unified decision.

He is so
    calculating,
 and I
   was never
one for math.

Textbook

I've learned when students find me interesting I am adorned with a splash of color. That I am used and abused. Shoved in dark lockers, tossed into gym bags (and to be honest you should really wash those socks). That I can be used as a weapon (your brother needs stitches by the way, I overheard your mom telling her friend as I lay there on the table). That I am versatile, and can be fashioned as a door stopper or  table leveler.
I have been discarded and overlooked, neglected and tossed aside, though I store vast amounts of information and knowledge. And students- if I have just taught you one thing. If one part of me, one page, one sentence, has planted a seed in your head-
I forgive you.
Love always,
Your textbook.