I ask the questions that I know the answers to but that I’m afraid of.

My mom had found
Weevils in my mac and cheese.
“What’s a weevil?” I asked.

A man was walking
Down the street
By the coffee shop
Where I went to have
My voice lessons.
My mom didn’t want
To let me out
Of the car alone.
When my dad told her
It would be okay,
She instructed me
To not make eye contact
With that man.
“Why?” I asked.

I asked
The love of my life
To go out with me.
He said yes,
We said we would
Set a date later,
But we never did.
I could feel him
Slipping away,
His disinterest tangible,
His avoidance detectable
Even though
It was unbeknownst to him.
I called him.
“If you didn’t want to come
To the Shakespeare Festival
With me,
You would tell me,
Right?” I asked.

Some things
You know
But they are so
Scary to acknowledge,
You need to hear them
Out of someone else’s mouth.

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ELIZABETH DAY
is a writer raised in Henderson, Nevada. She has loved reading and writing from a young age and writes literature, music, poetry, theatre, and film. She is studying English Education with a creative writing concentration and minors in theatre and film at Southern Utah University.

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