ode to sinjin.

"love, lay me down under grass & sunlight, and touch me [right here] and here and here, where the ache & hurt have gone to nest. [(now again)] my fingers will find yours, tangle & sweeten the air, and the birds will cry [for] us alone."

- sappho, fragment 83

☄

sinjin has always been something one might call "peculiar". studying everyone in the halls of his arts school, indulging himself in the leftover gum of other students (which was once stuck to a desk or a chair), or keeping a clear, glass jar of hair in his small locker to cradle within his arms. 

no one ever felt the need to speak with sinjin, to perhaps, get to know sinjin. he craves, no yearns, for someone to step forward, take him within their palms, and show him the love which he has only read about, not yet experienced. 

there is a lingering sadness which reveals itself within this thought. of course, he has many other things to distract himself from the utter despair which seems to overcome him in the midnight hour, but he keeps these activities to himself, only to himself. perhaps once, oh god please just once, sinjin desires to entangle himself within the warm presence of a lover, and finally share his interest within another being. 

he spends his sunlit hours against the walls of hollywood arts, lingering there, watching everyone. keeping his eyes peeled for the women, the men, anyone who would utter a word to him; the freak. jade can only ever be the name of a crystal to sinjin. he longed for her, but she did not call back for him. with that, there was also beck, who could only ever be the name of a musical artist to sinjin. he craved beck's touch, but beck, as well, longed to touch jade. sinjin was out of the mix. the same goes for just about everyone else who pushed passed him to get to their lockers, sikowitz's class, or to just nudge sinjin for pure fun. sinjin, within the heightened years of his puberty, has grown an underlying attraction to everyone who speaks to him, good or evil. 

but, he's usually the kind of kid who would rather super-glue their lunch to their locker, not eat it with others. 

after his sunlit, school days, sinjin arrives home, lanky body clad in unusual clothes and funky socks. he walks, trudges up the carpeted staircase to his bedroom, where his secrets sit, usually perched upon a shelf or two.

within the familiar comfort of his bedroom, and beside his queen-sized mattress, a wooden headboard with posters littering the walls behind it, there sits a night stand. cherry chapstick (cluttered with obvious bite marks along the stick), a green lava lamp accompanied by yellowish-mold growing around the cord, more skinny, clear jars filled with various contents, and a sock puppet sits upon the wooden surface of his nightstand.

there is one final item which fills the once-empty space upon the middle of the night stand. literature. not just one poem, or one book of poetry, but rather an entire stack of poetry books.

leaves of grass, the wasteland, devotions, the colossus. whitman, t.s eliot, oliver, plath, nabokov, piercy, thoreau. these, among so many other names and titles, make up what is sinjin van cleef's mind under the pale, innocent moonlight. 

 he lies in bed, contemplating himself for a moment, before pulling out a book from the stack; mood depending on which author, which title. 

he let his fingertips play along the edges of the pages as he read through the glorious works. 'no one else get's it like i do', he thought to himself, 'i am different. i am different. i am different.' 

'if i walk into that wretched school, book in hand, what would they think of me then?'

he let his mind ponder on various thoughts as he re-reads the poems which litter the torn pages. the love poems, nature poems, poetry with deep meaning. he reads it all, never growing bored or tired. 

this was his little secret. would other students at hollywood arts share the same passion for literature the way sinjin does? 'no, they can't', he thinks to himself once more. 'they probably have never even heard of robert frost!' 

but, he knows his thoughts are lies, all lies. of course the other students have heard of frost, they have heard of silverstein, they have heard about it all. but, sinjin was becoming desperate. he needs to feel different, to feel opposite of the other students in order to become something new. something that when he finally shares himself with another human, they will crave more of him, more of his knowledge. for he is, 'different'.

the consumption of literature can only mend a brain so much to want.

so, he wallows within himself, and the words in front of him, until the sun rests and the moon plays with the stars, - hopscotch and such. his eyes remain steady as his index finger traces the work, sentence after sentence. he reads, 

"......shall i say, i have gone at dusk through narrow streets..... and watched the smoke that rises from the pipes... of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?......"

sinjin chuckled to himself, re-reading the same stanzas, verses, sentences over and over again. the thrill which fills his body is exhilarating, heart thumping, chest tightening. can words do this to someone? 

'the love song of j. alfred prufrock...' he thinks to himself, although slightly whispering, 'who else has read this like i have?' he smirks, 'that's right, no one.'  

but, they have, sinjin. they have. they have read it for their ap literature classes, their poetry classes, even within their free time. you are not special. you are not special..

......

hi! i want to let it be known this is completely for jokes and ironic! i am a poet and writer myself, so i would never want to make anyone feel less of themself for enjoying literature! 

we are all special! 

i just thought the idea of sinjin from victorious reading authors like plath or someone was funny,.. so i wrote it! muahaha