Their body language created a narrative in itself, shoulders tense with a papered fortune of frustration. Lovers, maybe, who lost touch, the once spark now diluted with water and resentment. It’s potential already foreshadowed the fleeting mess they absorbed.
It’s the moment where he reaches to grab her hand, the quickness of her pullback matched with a glare. He is stripped. The peel of slowly wilted desire. Their heads now shrink with the rise of ground. Flight opens into an imagined backdrop of greying lovat. As if intentionally layered, building shapes slice into the sky. …
You brushed my hair and I could’ve sworn the brush was your hand
Plastic and claw-like
The softness of detangling, could’ve easily been mistaken for your carpet palms
The same could be said for blankets or stiff pillows, my backpack, and, also ice water
I’ve mistaken you for candle flames but also jackets
I could’ve sworn I sang you the other day but it was my own tune
I felt the leaves on a tall willow just to make sure your face wasn’t beneath it
When the cicadas began loudly, the low hum where I can’t see, I turn around endlessly like it could be your voice
I firmly nudge trunks now, just to knock your balance
I mistook your legs for roots
Somehow I wasn’t wrong
Ash Wednesday you were bent over a chair like a deflated balloon
Your mother’s elastic wrists and leather sword
Leaving impressions like sand walked upon
You wait for the ocean suds to erase it
But you live in the desert
In a stucco house, in an water-less land
So there is nothing but waiting
For the imprint to bubble and smooth
Without the help of liquid
You pray on your knees each night like god could be the flood
And I did too, but since my parents didn’t drink blood or eat flesh I didn’t really
Instead, I made my…
You saw me walking, under the spotlights, a tar stage
Tights dressing my legs as gravy, my exposed chest a bare expanse of your comfort food
Watching as a fly on a wall, until you were now bigger than a cat, a Dog, more like. Hissing your hunger with the callous poison an attempt of shrinking me, a success in shrinking me.
There’s always three options, scream and die, cry and die, submit and Pleasure
But the Pleasure is not mine, dear Dog
The Pleasure is all yours
This tar stage is your palace, me, an observer in your quicksand…
A poetic prose
The first time I had met her, I looked up every name beginning with E, as if I could find one that fit her more perfectly. Do you ever view a person, and exclusively let them sit on the tip of your tongue, calling them anything but what they told you would be further than wrong? Not just really wrong, but abrasively wrong.
As if “Erin” wouldn’t have resonated as much as the ending of her name, the A being so specifically decadent that eriN wouldn’t fit.
But then, even “Ella” didn’t sit either, the double L’s…
Fetal position is supposed to act
As a shrinkage
Hovering over time periods now vacant
Do you remember when your corset broke
Right in the eye catching view of the hunter? The thief?
Eyes acting as your internal overcast
They don’t remember, but you do
And boy, you run with it
You were truly grown from the lushest, most delectable fruits
But you promote inner rot?
Let it fuzz
Over that higher plane
And all that you could’ve done to stop it
Was simply remove your
From your chest
Look back at your broken corset,
And thank it.
She did this every year with him. They would sit on a half-broken bench with its coffee-stained wood and competitive stillness. Sipping chai liquid decadence and imagining what it would be like to be painted with such brilliant colors. It was the time of year where the trees emulated hair, allowing strands to hit the moistened ground. Uncovering the new saturations as a loud response to the abrasive cold.
He related more with the trees than she did. She was envious, but couldn’t pinpoint why. It could’ve been his beard, which, when compared, held speckled grey just like decaying leaves…
The lining of my cuticles began to bleed, chipped with deep-rooted anxiety and apprehension. The nails I would only let grow to a point, knowing if they grew any longer, it would stain the outline of my palms, my fingers. I found them to be the real reflection for the deep-bellied sense of fear I would later attain. It was safe to say, my convincing narrative about these limbs I believed unknowingly.
I had been relating them explicitly to the destruction of my own worth.
In this specific time-stamp, it was me at sixteen, still understanding the value of intuition…
Charming, it was, for you to define meaning to my writing.
“It’s almost.. delectable.” You would say, the appearance of woven ribbons attached at the seams of it.
I found it to be, the comparison of using your appetite, my words to your false stomach, when in those dire times
Became a sweet fall back of your pompous horse, became the one description where you could be the spitting image of your own mocking
Was the word you found the easiest, the one that made you look even more Astute, Brainy, and Bright all in one.
It was the neutral middle point, where the ache of sitting begins to itch, turned illegible.
It was at the canteen where it slowly rot.
In the car, pieces of my skin crawled with dependency and loss.
It was at the airport, rememberance of Komang’s aggressive hold where I slowly dissolved.
The deterioration felt so continuous until it didn’t. A sour estranged melt on my tongue.
It was the neutral middle point.
where the deterioration became adoration. Decadent. My thoughts were decadent. Decadent with growth and understanding and learning. Decadent with the collection of confusion, accidents, and unbalance. …