6,11,20,21

This is a poem I've just written recently. It's a first draft, so it needs some work. Any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. Particularly on the ending.

The day I earned that round, white patch of skin

just below my knee. Where I fell off my bike,

white and pink and twice my size,

onto the brown concrete, twisted and broken,

buckled under the pressure.

My white sock stained red.

 

The day I lost the motion in my wrist

on the cold gray basement floor,

flat and hard and unforgiving.

My shiny blue skates had given up on me

and my plump purple wrist did too.

 

The day I received that warped brown skin

all over my left foot. When my feet decided

to spend some time apart and left me

sliding down a harsh hill, painted with my

embarrassment in my clear plastic flip-flops.

 

The day I gave up a larger part of me

and was rewarded with that two-inch

reddish line just above my right hip.

In that empty sterile room where I couldn’t sleep.

The white coats told me I would be fine

as long as I kept on walking.

 

The End

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