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anya
anya
I am a little pixie girl with zero social graces and infinite good will. Word wench. And a letter whore and Nirvana nerd to boot. Mediocre musician. Language enthusiast (fluent in English and Hindi, intermediate in Spanish and Sanskrit, beginner in Esperanto). INFP. I have an unhealthy obsession with sweaters. Also, potato chips and Mountain Dew. I eat books like basil leaves. I swear a lot. I write to keep myself from going crazy.
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Sylvia, don't cry.   Come and sleep next to me in this grassy field. Our knees touching like two knobby parentheses cupping words whispered between us at 3 am. Vulnerable. Venerable. My dearest sister in arms. And if it makes you happy we could talk about literature and Gods and good art and tea and faithless fathers and lovers. Sylvia,  don't cry. Scream at me if it makes things okay. Curse at the yellow moon hanging in the starless sky like a gold pendulum. Break all the mirrors and wall clocks. But don't run after a train that has already left that foggy station. Sylvia, don't cry. Stop scraping the answers to your sorrows off that crusty oven floor. Go, open the kitchen window. Sylvia, don't cry. Next time the phone rings during dinner Rip out the ******* cord And choke that soulless ******* Sylvia, don't cry. Find a ladder and climb the frigging tree Stuff your mouth with purple figs until your belly aches. Don't wait for them to fall on the ground. Keep eating. Sylvia, don't cry. Slice their throats with your cursive knives When men say that a girl poet must bleed on the quill she writes with. Smear your cheeks with their blood. Battle paint. My brave Amazonian. Sylvia, don't cry. I know at times it feels as if your spirit is trying to climb its way out of your own body Stop swallowing stones to weigh it down. Hold my hand. It'll get better, I promise.
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Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
anya
For Sylvia.
Sylvia, don't cry.   Come and sleep next to me in this grassy field. Our knees touching like two knobby parentheses cupping words whispered between us at 3 am. Vulnerable. Venerable. My dearest sister in arms. And if it makes you happy we could talk about literature and Gods and good art and tea and faithless fathers and lovers. Sylvia,  don't cry. Scream at me if it makes things okay. Curse at the yellow moon hanging in the starless sky like a gold pendulum. Break all the mirrors and wall clocks. But don't run after a train that has already left that foggy station. Sylvia, don't cry. Stop scraping the answers to your sorrows off that crusty oven floor. Go, open the kitchen window. Sylvia, don't cry. Next time the phone rings during dinner Rip out the ******* cord And choke that soulless ******* Sylvia, don't cry. Find a ladder and climb the frigging tree Stuff your mouth with purple figs until your belly aches. Don't wait for them to fall on the ground. Keep eating. Sylvia, don't cry. Slice their throats with your cursive knives When men say that a girl poet must bleed on the quill she writes with. Smear your cheeks with their blood. Battle paint. My brave Amazonian. Sylvia, don't cry. I know at times it feels as if your spirit is trying to climb its way out of your own body Stop swallowing stones to weigh it down. Hold my hand. It'll get better, I promise.
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