Here’s my shitty sestina for English class…
Smithereens float gently from the back of her mind
Down to touch the brown of her eyes
A smile does well to shield
With naiveté and ignorance
She’s not allowed to think back to those rooms
Nor allow The memory to be remembered
The memory engulfs all others
Those smithereens making more smithereens
These rooms don’t remember
The touch felt by young skin
But naiveté prevails
Through that smile on her face
The kind of smile that only
That memory could form
Naiveté continues on within her
The grey smithereens of what once was white
Are the only touch she can feel
And she’ll never return to those rooms
Rooms of sanctity once existed
To protect that innocent smile
Her touch isn’t cold
But that memory freezes in her sight
She tries to rub the smithereens from her eyes
And naiveté grows just as she does
Naiveté grows younger and she gets a little older
New rooms belong to strangers
Aged smithereens lightly coat
Her smile at a new haven
A new memory or two to come
Of new skin to touch
A not-so-strange stranger’s touch
Takes naiveté away
If only for the duration of That memory
Strangers’ rooms give an inviting feeling
And then that feeling turns into a smile
Glossed pink with those smithereens
A new memory of square rooms
Doused with a touch of past naiveté
Smile! Your own morality has burst into smithereens
