Bleu/Grace Knudsen

Four years ago, I used to pick my shirt off the floor,
Clutch it to my chest, feel it on my collarbone,
And find a hint of the night before.
I’d stand there and wonder what I should do with myself.

Jasmine. Sweet, warm, and inviting.
We stood there swaying in a dark parking lot,
Lit up by his phone plugged into the car speaker.
My teeth were chattering, but his hands were warm;
Slowly pushing my hair out of my face and
Kissing each finger on my hand.
My teenage heart racing and I thought to myself,
“No one’s ever cared for me like this before!”

Citrus. Bright, cold, and sharp.
Everything swells in bold colors, even the darker parts.
Settling into texts ignored and cracked voices.
Silence on the other end of the phone.
His eyes blinking rapidly,
Tripping over his words, lies escaping before he even notices.
Love doesn’t feel like pulling teeth,
But I tell myself that it might.

Cedar. Grounded and all-knowing. And wise,
even when you’re as naive as I used to be.
“Did you really plan to last after high school?”
“Obviously not, Mom.”
“Then what’s keeping you from just being happy?”

Sandalwood. Deep, rich, and clean. Simple.
We meet up everytime I come home and laugh about our old days.
How I wore too much eyeliner and he wore cologne that was too mature for him.
We talk about where he’s at and where I’m at
The perimeter of each other’s lives, but it’s the right place.
‘Us’ became the t-shirt that I outgrew.

I don’t have to throw it away and try to forget it.
I can keep it in the back of my closet, holes and all.
Maybe take it out, once in a while, and smooth out the wrinkles.
Remember the times that I wore it.
The times when it was my favorite,
Even though I won’t put it back on again. 

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Grace Knudsen is a junior at SNC from McHenry, IL. She is majoring in English and Communications with a focus in media studies. Her writing typically focuses on addressing her younger self, and creating a narrative that embraces honesty, authenticity, and personal growth.