I did remember the feeling of apple picking season. I remembered the fall weather and what it was like to find the perfect one. The apples were of red and green, sometimes both, but colors that reminded me of warmth and the candle mother had lit just before dinner was served. It was cold that day but not cold enough for a sweater, just for apple cider and pumpkin donuts. The apple I picked was red, all red. I stood upon the ladder, feeling giant, I reigned over the trees and felt like howling over top of them. I remembered then, the applesauce grandmother would make. I would remember the first bite, the bitter taste of fresh apple, sour but sweet. Grandmothers home.
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 12:44 PM UTC
I wouldn’t like to believe I am cold. I am not cold. I am uncertain. They mean the same thing to you, I know it. I am tired. I am awake at 4:19 a.m. and the world is asleep. The moon just laid to rest but not for good only just for the hours no one needed him. I needed the moon hours before when we talked about our lives, its craters were deep he had aged since we last discussed the world. I felt that the world was in my hands at that hour, I must go do something good I thought only to lie awake as the fan chirped above me. I am not cold but I am uncertain. The moon told me my path was steady but who is he to say, he only comes out in the late hours. The hours no one seems to pay any mind to, the world is asleep.
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 7:22 AM UTC
I have come to a conclusion. The conclusion to all my worries. To my pain and my curiosity. I will not be good enough. I will ask you for your assurance. I will beg you to let me stay. I would never leave. They leave me. They run fleeing as quick as their feet may carry them... broken photo frames and torn love letters. I was just hoping you would stay...
Mar 20, 2020
Mar 20, 2020 at 3:20 AM UTC
It was December and the sun rested upon its cloud.
night.
I sang in the shower that night. I even combed through my messy curls. More pulling than combing. But I combed.
In the mirror. My reflection. It glanced at me and smiled back and even had the same beauty mark upon its lower cheek. We were the same.
I wondered what it was like to be the least favorite in the garden.
Did roses think lily’s were ugly? Roses were beautiful.
sad. Upon some time you would grow lonely. Tired. Un whole.
Empty. I was empty because I felt ordinary.
I was ordinary nothing too good. Not anything bad. Ordinary.
In afternoons walking past the roses I saw myself as a Dandelion. The ugly one.
The ugly duckling. The ugly flower. The ordinary.
Jan 8, 2020
Jan 8, 2020 at 12:46 AM UTC
Something about the way his eyes glowed in the pattern on the sun filled the room with an aura of something blue. Sometimes red. Others green or purple. But each time he filled the room. On days that were cold his heart grew warm. Though cheeks red. His hair was brown but white like snow on winter days. He reminded me of winter. Chilling but beautiful. Complex but so simple. Cold but warm inside.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
Remember the way of the moon and how the seasons changed. The sun kissed the August season as the lakes warmed and the sunflowers bloomed. Or remember when the sun fell early but softly on the winter lakes. Frozen and fields white with snow. The changing seasons of May were what I’d remember most from my childhood. It would be summer and the joyous giggles of children galloping through fields would fill the air like a rain storm in April. Along the lakes we’d row to the ghost island, bones piling up in numbers unimaginable but, it was an adventure. A memory. The sunscreen burning through our cheeks we’d lie among grasses and wet rivers, longing for summer to stay forever. The winter months were soon but the blossoming flowers and handmade ice cream made us think that wasn’t so.
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 8:52 PM UTC
I thought he was the one... I was wrong. I am no longer a lover but a fool
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 4:21 PM UTC
The staircase looked to be painted green or something meant to be blue but ended up green
The green was chipped with flakes of brown hardwood poking through the crevices
Of the emerald color. I stepped on the first staircase remembering the warm Augusts there but mostly the fall. His coat was still hanging on the pole connected to the railing I glanced at it and it glanced back at me. Staring into my soul but my weeping eyes as I remembered what it felt like to be in love. His coat smelled of cologne and dried rain. I put it over my shoulders, tears falling into place.
This staircase in our home belonged to us and only us, but then he left and now it is only me, It is only me with all my faults and ripped jeans too big to fit my withering waistline as I count the days gone by. I count the days on the calendar marking a tiny X in the corner hoping still he might walk through the door. I hope still, that he would greet me with the same expressions he once did before, always first asking me about my day. Now I enter my home with empty dreams and dark memories with no one to call out my name. The staircase was for us, it was the road map to our dreams. The staircase carried our first boxes all marked and packed with things that belonged to us. The staircase carried our long nights after staying up late, talking about things only we knew.
The Staircase who was once emerald green carried what I thought to be our future but ended up as a memory from the past in only a matter of seconds. I never knew why he left me sitting upon that staircase, my head buried in the palms of my hands atop that staircase . He left in a fit of rage with the idea of never coming back, I didn’t think that was so. But now this staircase carry’s regret, for I shouldn’t have said what I said but the staircase knew I only wanted what was best. The staircase may also carry my future, I just haven’t discovered what that might be yet.
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
With tigery stripes, and a face on it
Round as the moon, to stare up.
I want to be looking at them when they come
Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots.
I see them already -- the pale, star-distance faces.
Now they are nothing, they are not even babies.
I imagine them without fathers or mothers, like the first gods.
They will wonder if I was important.
I should sugar and preserve my days like fruit!
My mirror is clouding over --
A few more breaths, and it will reflect nothing at all.
The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet.
I do not trust the spirit. It escapes like steam
In dreams, through mouth-hole or eye-hole. I can't stop it.
One day it won't come back. Things aren't like that.
They stay, their little particular lusters
Warmed by much handling. They almost purr.
When the soles of my feet grow cold,
The blue eye of my tortoise will comfort me.
Let me have my copper cooking pots, let my rouge pots
Bloom about me like night flowers, with a good smell.
They will roll me up in bandages, they will store my heart
Under my feet in a neat parcel.
I shall hardly know myself. It will be dark,
And the shine of these small things sweeter than the face of Ishtar.
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 10:52 PM UTC
I am from yellow houses. The ones with green shutters and vines growing along the sides. I am from rainy weather with umbrellas too big to hold in my small, weary, hands. I am what I am. I am unloveable and complex but loved and solved at the same time. I am an open book but one that remains closed until someone comes along and opens me, reading each page, some colorful and others just blank. I am a story worth telling and an experience worth sharing, some good, others not so much. I am from sunflowers and freshly cut grass. I am a blank page but I can easily be marked. I am what I am. I am from linen sheets and warm laundry. I hope to be less of a burden than I am. The youngest child, the one parents hope turn out alright. I am from tears and broken hearts. But I am also from sunshine and glasses half full. I am artwork that hangs on walls and painted in murals, ones you can’t glance at just once. I am from cold winters and warm homes during them. I am what I am. I am from clothing too big to fit my tiny body and fresh apples too small to fill my empty stomach. I am what I am.
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 3:25 PM UTC