I could hear my best friend down the hall. The room was still dark. I didn’t know how I’d gotten there or where you’d gone. Your presence weighed heavily in my stomach, along my thighs in a pulsing fashion. The light from the hallway sliced the room, telling me it was my fault. I rushed to cover my chest and other tender areas with the now satin sheets. I frantically searched for each article of clothing. Realization sunk in with a shamed shade of vermilion. I donned socks and shirt, exited your room, made excuses to her, and ran away.
Maggie Bowyer is a poet and is very passionate about her work. She loves New York City because art thrives throughout the bustling streets. She wants to go to NYU to pursue her career in teaching English and Creative Writing.
If she isn’t vegging out in front of her computer or making terrible puns, Shishi Shomloo is probably looking through the viewfinder of her camera (she finds that oftentimes the world makes more sense that way). Other interests and hobbies of hers include writing, drawing, eating, and crying over fictional characters. You can reach her at firstname.lastname@example.org, and more of her work is available on her Flickr.