We were a compound sentence:
two subjects and their corresponding predicates,
joined by nothing but a monosyllable.
We could stand alone but chose not to,
and our souls, though independent,
corresponded in subject and substance
so that our names belonged as a unified thought.
Now we are a comma splice:
two thoughts connected in subject
but missing a coordinating conjunction—
the tiny piece of something
that means nearly nothing on its own,
but when it isn’t there, you know it isn’t there
and you feel its absence
in the way you stumble over words,
like they are incomplete or out of place.
We are two independent clauses,
and all that connects us is a comma,
and in that way, among others,
you are like the mistake I made
on my eleventh grade research paper on Julius Caesar.
But instead of Times New Roman,
I wrote you in the shape of my veins,
and instead of turning you in to my teacher,
I introduced you to my parents.
Lauren Scavo is a recent graduate of Grace College, where she studied Drawing/Painting and English. Her hometown is in Pittsburgh, PA. Email: scavolj[at]grace.edu