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Poetic Prose

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


A poem

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…


A Poem

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

A girl floating in the Indian Ocean, Taken by: Chloë Dennis

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…


A poem

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

Knees

From your chest

Look back at your broken corset,

And thank it.


Fall In Portland — Chloë Dennis

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…


Putting my hands on a pedestal as a gratefulness technique.

Photo Series: Visual Sound: Taken by me, my Junior Year of High School

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…


A Poem

Photo by Chloë Dennis

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.

Funny

I found it to be, the comparison of using your appetite, my words to your false stomach, when in those dire times

Delectable

Became a sweet fall back of your pompous horse, became the one description where you could be the spitting image of your own mocking

Delectable

Was the word you found the easiest, the one that made you look even more Astute, Brainy, and Bright all in one.

Can…


The blessing of a new temple in Indonesia, my second home

It was the neutral middle point, where the ache of sitting begins to itch, turned illegible.

Unsalvageable.

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. …

Chloë H Dennis

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