My father pointed with the finger partially lost to a table saw
“that’s venus, see”
and i lift my gaze
and pretend that i’m not afraid to see another world
and my father goes on to list constellations lazily;
on first name basis with Orion.
and venus winks at me
and I learn years later that planets don’t blink
Your words tumble in a tangle off of your tongue,
they get caught in my hands,
and I cannot unravel the sound of them;
I cannot separate them from myself.
Late at night laying awake and afraid,
those words creep into the open caverns of myself.
They crawl in through my bloodstream,
and wrap around my frayed and wary nerves.
They pour into the cracks in my lips,
into bitten down fingernails,
and tired lashes.
The sound of your words wind into my lungs,
and fill my throat with each sleep heavy breath.
They take refuge in the cavities of my chest,
and they calm my quick heart.
Whispering sweet sounds,
you words become me.
In case you guys feel like reading it. I put it under the read more break since it’s really long. I’m so glad to be done though, with four days left until the presentation. Anyway, enjoy and let me know what you think!
The autumn sun
and it’s long fingers
touching firey and burnt leaves, making gold from dust;
a great astronomical Midas.
Whose open hands brush bare skin ablaze.
There are more words for warmth than can be used in a small sentence.
There are spaces that exist in between two points, where the two points are the only thing that anyone cares about. The past and the future; looking back and looking forward. There is a universe that lives and prospers and someday dies in between those two moments, and it is so fleeting that it is often forgotten. There are constellations of freckles across shoulders; stories written across the sky. There are explosions and bursts of angst and frustration, that burn and cool before dying out, and others that burn slow and angry. There are galaxies of eyelashes and lips, and all the parts of the body that are loved best. Planets, adorned with the rise and fall of sleeping breaths; mountains made of spines. And in between all the bright and beautiful, there is heavy weight. There are days made of closed blinds and bed sheets and a constant fear of failure. Such a crushing, living weight that changes with the day, and sneaks in. Vast black holes, that pull all the good things and crush them into dust. There is where the present sleeps, in the universe between two points, and there is where what matters is forgotten.
I have become a cavern;
Filled with shallow,
and uneven pulses
(which can be blamed on a chronic heart murmur, however unlikely.)
I am vastly explored,
though unsteady hands.
My life is comprised of moments; brief and blinding, they stack up deep in the soles of my feet until one day, they will spill over from the top of my head. Such bright days, illuminating hours, and shimmering seconds. Singing loudly and dancing wildly in the passenger seat of a dimly lit car; it glows. Feeling important and young and feeling like you’ve never been happier, not a single day in your life, not a single bit more alive. Waking up to soft lips and warm skin and achingly sincere words that pour out from the most beautiful mouth. It all fills me to the brim until I’m cracking and all the brightness is spilling, and it’s moments more than emotions. It’s breathing and hoping and holding on in the best ways, and it’s all more than a simple body can handle. It’s knowing that there is so much to do; there are things to feel; an infinite number of books to read; an endless playlist of perfect songs. And many, many moments.
I have a fear of the ocean. I suppose it cannot truly be called a fear, or if so it cannot be a terrible one. I can swim in the ocean just fine, or ride a ferry to an island, or dance in the water with my close friends. I just cannot seem to look at it; the vast spaces in between shorelines, where the water fades from pale blue to dark cerulean and there is nothing occupying the space in between. It does not make me fear for my life, or cower or flee. No, it is a welling inside my chest; sinking stones in an empty gut; shrinking lungs and fleeing air. It is an uncomfortable sensation that seeps far into my bones, despite logical knowledge of irrationality. I feel as though I need to look away, as though something horrible and unknown will bleed out of the image.
I have a similar fear of space. It is a strange anxiety, seeing as I am equally fascinated with the astronomical. Merely images of the cold and lonely void are enough to evoke the same panic mentioned prior. There is a sense of smallness, knowing at my very core that I am essentially nothing; the universe cares not for me, and that in itself is deeply frightening. I suppose I could say that is is the depth of both the ocean and space that make me anxious; the endlessness makes me uncomfortable in way that are difficult to convey. My friends think it is trite, a silly irrational fear. Perhaps they are right, but this is what I know positively: I am stuck, afraid of what is above and below me, only comfortable with where my feet are firmly planted.
She was walking quickly, gathering her things and sweeping them into her room, making a point to seem unperturbed. She was a storm; a gathering of anger and frustration and anxiety into one vast cloud that hung heavy inside of her. She boiled over with words like, “priorities” and “independent” but most of all her own name. Coated with disappointment and guilt, her own name was lump in her throat that grew until she could not breathe. It was shouted behind her, sticky, and sickly sweet with expectation. It was a reminder of who she was and who she was expected to be; the two never seemed to quite add up. She was a sometimes reliable daughter, who was maybe selfish and worthy of occasional pride. She was expected to be a pillar; steady, solid and prepared to give everything up for everyone else. The optimist, who was brilliant at being grateful, and could mostly manage to hide all the bad things at the back of her mind. But for now she pushed her bedroom door closed, and her own name swelled inside of her, and she never understood why everything was so fucking hard.
The toes of her oxfords hung off the curb while she waited.
Steam rose like fingertips off of the street when the glaringly yellow cab finally arrived.
“Goddamn, my fingers are falling off, it’s so cold here.”
The driver smirked, and helped her load her bags into the trunk.
She was finally leaving this filthy city; she was finally coming home.
It was always Tetris.
All of the girls he fell for played Tetris like it was their job.
Their slim, painted fingers constantly tapping at phones and video game controllers.
He would smile when he saw a girl playing Tetris, their pretty faces focused and intense.
Though to be honest, he never could understand the appeal.
Gabrielle hated static, the way it would sneak into her hair and make it float and stand.
She hated the sharp pain of it when she touched metal and it would bite into her skin.
She hated the report she had to write about it in the eighth grade; her very first C.
But mostly, Gabrielle hated how it ruined her relationships. She just never felt it, so she despised it instead.
She moved suddenly, knocking her suitcase to the floor.
Satin was sprawled and silk scattered.
She sank to the ground, too weary to clean up, to heavy to stand.
She was stationary, a statue; she felt stones sinking under her skin.
It was all overwhelming; life was far too much.