I whisper your name
Alone in my room
To feel something, sense something
Where my mind won’t let me
I grip hard at my covers
And dig my nails into my skin
To force my eyes open
See who squats under my flesh
The wind makes it hard to see
I rub violently
To make the mirror less foggy
My eyes are raw
But somewhere I can hear drums
When I stick my tongue out
To taste the rain
It’s briny
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 12:52 AM UTC
I'm clutching at my throat
Scraping at collapsing walls for remnants of oxygen
But you've already managed to satiate heated cravings
As you gorge yourself on the air in the room
Your roar chokes me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
When deep breaths won't work
And you're trembling from the fear
Don't you dare shed tears
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
Wish me luck today
I plan to shake the fabric
Of the adult realm
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
Draw your knife swiftly
Stab white sheets that spew black blood
And carve lovely words
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
Rip open my skin
Grasp my heart in your rough hands
Steal breath from my lungs
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
Yesterday
My feet were molded by water
They flew against the ground
Like slick rocks hungry for purpose
Amidst an endless sea
Yesterday
The leaves were red and yellow
They patted my cheeks as they cascaded
The wind caught their crevices and tugged down
Designing a waterfall over my head
**Yesterday
There rushed tender currents.
But today
I walk with closed eyes.**
Today
The tide carries pain down my chest
Sews my lids shut with thin thread
It's alright
The leaves will be brown if my eyes open now
Today
The ocean seeps through thin lashes
Rivers drip against sandy skin
I clip the bridges woven onto my eyes and see
A sea embroidered with tumbling mirrors
**Now
I'm drenched free,
soaked with waves of me.**
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
The wooden swing underneath me,
It creaks as it slowly rocks to and fro to the tempo of the blowing wind,
My feet refuse to touch the grass,
For they want to disturb neither the surreal silence that courses through me,
Nor the perfection of the dewy grass under my being.
Another gust of air caresses my hair,
It lingers before it escapes and leaves me almost in despair.
The weather yearns to reach true summer,
But it never quite does.
A rusty bike leans on the late wooden fence,
A single white undergarment lies draped over a bright blue string,
A filthy watering can positions itself,
Next to a meager patch of small purple flowers.
These small flowers are so trifling,
They’re so insignificant.
When I enter the house,
I know I’ll take in the sweet aroma of berries,
Heaps upon heaps.
Up my nose, the scent will creep.
Oh the smell of the freshest most delectable summer fruits.
The kind that make sure they leave their mark,
No matter how careful you are.
The kind that leave juices dripping down your wrists.
The kind that make my tongue a canvas splattered with red dyes.
I’ll look into my Mummi’s bright blue eyes,
I’ll stare at the lines on her face.
There will be something so young about her,
But underneath the creases, stretch marks, and wrinkles,
I won’t be able to tell what it is.
I’ll imagine her meeting my grandfather,
Way back when he was a handsome young man,
At least from the photographs.
Her blue eyes would admire him.
They’d watch him light a cigarette,
Turn the page of a fresh novel.
She knew she was in love.
At the time she didn’t know,
One day she’d bear his seven children.
Her spouse and her firstborn son would have left before she had the chance to.
She’d live in this house alone,
It’d be the only thing she’d known,
A time capsule stuck in the nineteen seventies,
It’d be littered with old cassettes,
Sepia photographs,
Refrigerator magnets.
She’d sit on her rocking chair,
Until her mistakes could no longer be repaired.
Letting the days languidly slip away.
She’d listen to the chair’s unchanging creaks,
And the murky sounds escaping the radio,
The one with the fork planted into one of its antennas.
She’d watch those old sepia photos
Begin to add only the reddest reds and bluest blues,
Until finally she’d witness wedding pictures,
Communion snapshots,
In the most vibrant colors.
The television would add channels,
Whilst the old library truck would forget her address.
It didn’t matter,
She’d read every book anyway.
Life would have left without her.
She’d have neither traveled much nor loved enough.
She’d watch her oldest daughter leave,
Trying to grasp and hold onto those cravings her mother never could achieve.
She’d say,
“Mummi’s little girl will fly high as the sky and run quick as the August wind.”
But I know that when I enter that same, humble home,
And smell those same aromas I know,
She’ll say oh so simply,
“Emmi, muru, would you like some more strawberries?”
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC