My life lacked purpose ‘fore the day we met
Beneath the harvest moon you stood in wait
Your eyes, bright amber, blinking large and wet
I swooned at our encounter, called it fate,
Your hair, it shimmered dark as blackest night
You scorned me, yet I could not turn away
When suddenly you took off in a flight,
I swore that I would not be kept at bay
Your silhouette now low against the ground,
I squint to make you out in night’s dim haze
Hear rapid patters as you tread around
Your countenance a mirror of your ways
When I make my approach, you hiss and mewl
Alas, now to a cat I’ve played the fool!

Camila dips a toe into the black
A ring of water sears upon her skin
She knows at once she cannot venture back
until she tames the beast that lurks within
She’s grown familiar with its poison kiss,
The fragile light corrupted by its shade,
Yet if one truth exists, she thinks it this:
Camila’s fought too long to be afraid  
She winces as her knuckles sear and scar
But, trem'bling, she does not cease her descent
She casts her burning eyes into the tar
and spies the beast, head hung and elbows bent,
but startles when the beast cries out in song
Its voice had been Camila’s all along

we drink in the day
like a cup of coffee
or a soft breath
a question beneath a universe of sacrifice
never changing
lingering with love

I watch her watch herself,
pale, slender fingers pressed against her flat stomach.
She gives an uncertain sigh as she turns this way and that,
twirling a lock of hair in her pale, slender fingers
and trying to look disinterested in her own reflection.

She reaches into a tiny purse, eventually,
and pulls out a tube of mascara.
Her eyes widen to marbles as she teeters close to the mirror,
applying her armor stroke
by stroke
by stroke.

She knows that I am watching her now (I wobble hazily in the mirror),
so I look away for a moment,
and by the time my eyes dart back to hers, her eyelashes flutter pitch black
Like ink spilling from a fountain pen.

I can tell she’s still looking at her stomach
And she can tell I’m still looking at her,
so she murmurs something like acknowledgement
and brushes past me.
Watching her walk away feels wrong, so I look down at my hands instead,
red and pruny
from the hot water seeping down the drain.

and i am Seething in my seat
and my mother reaches for my hand
as if to say “i’m sorry” but she doesn’t say it
and she pays my head
and we will not speak of this again
and my father nods in absent agreement
and my sister watches my eyes
always watching
as if i am a time bomb
about to
explode.

the sun is your heart
a ball of white hot anger
too distant to touch.

the sun is your smile
clear through skies and atmospheres
and it shines. you shine.

the sun is your breath
pulsing with understanding
heavy, solemn, slow.

a single rosebush beside the path
its thorn ****** at her side
but on she walks at a solemn pace
her heart in agony

a patch of brambles occludes the way
its vines too thick and wide
but on she walks over briared earth
the pain becomes her guide

a path leads down to a shattered coast
its tide so strong and high
but on she walks into greyest sea
and melts into the tide

a hollow gasp slips from thinnest lips
teardrops from iron eye
but on she walks at a solemn pace
she feels the spirit die

if i could find words not in vain to describe her,
verses of her Virtuousness, i would sing
her humble approval in glances so fleeting
her song like a robin’s, beckoning the spring
our friendship, a gentle yet short affair
she, the girl with the golden hair

oh, how i would press softest lips to her own
should she give me a whisper, an answer, a plea,
and yet, from her halo of Heavenly judgement
not once has she cast a soft look towards me
a heart that is wounded beyond repair
she, the girl with the golden hair

through Holiest laughter, i smooth back her tresses
her eyes crinkle up in a bittersweet smile
i murmur, i love you, she tells me, i’m sorry.
we sit in the frost of december a while
warm breath on cold cheeks, puffs of hot air
from she, the girl with the golden hair

winter is breaking, and spring is long gone,
as is her gossamer, dissolute song
our friendship, a tender yet brief affair
me and the girl with the golden hair.

Time slipped away in the spring, in the muddy puddles and the rain, in the sweet-smelling flowers and the rain.
It rubbed circles into the small of my back,
whispered bittersweet apologies and tacked a sticky note to my corkboard.
“Remember to call.”
I forgot.

And I sit under the blooming tree
my bare feet soft against the grass

Time left me in the summer, in the sunny skies and the rain, in the sweltering heat and the rain.
It ran somewhere unknown, far, far, far away,
while I treaded chlorinated water and prayed that the fall would come sooner.
“You can call whenever.”
I didn’t.

And I sit beside the verdant tree
my bare feet ******* the pavement

Time was gone in the fall, in the whispered breeze and the rain, in the crinkling leaves and the rain.
But I had company in a glowing screen,
And as days turned to weeks turned to months I forgot about time altogether.
“Someone is calling.”
I hung up.

And I sit far from the dying tree
my bare feet resting on the couch

Time slept in the winter, in the miserable cold and the rain, in the blustery wind and the rain.
Numbers and names disavowed,
As “today” and “tomorrow” become “now” and “later”
“What is the word called?”
I don’t know.

And I cannot see the empty tree
my bare feet asleep on the carpet

Time has returned in the spring.
It looks me in the eyes,
profuse apologies pouring out from its lips.
“But you didn’t call.”
I blink. Didn’t I?

my mother likes to tell me i am now a part of history
but if people only remember the tragedies,
i don’t want to be.

art is around me
always.
like the wind in my hair or the grass on my feet.
perpetual.
art doesn’t come and go
even as humanity
wavers.
in fact, when humanity is unsure,
art flourishes.

i have created my fair share of art.
after all,
i am an artist
...
at least, that is what i call myself
and that means many things.

i like to draw, and drawings cover my walls from
top to bottom.
therefore i am an artist.

i like to write, and words flow through me
like water through a stream.
therefore i am an artist.

i like to sing, and lyrics whisper out of my mouth
when no one is listening.
therefore i am an artist.

i like to take pictures, and images
of flowers and rivers and streams stream through my mind.
therefore i am an artist.

i have created my fair share of art.
after all, we are in quarantine.
meaning we are at home.
meaning we have “nothing” to do.
(wrong)

i like to draw
i like to write
i like to sing
i like to take pictures
therefore i am an artist
and i have work to do

art is when
you
take something empty and give it life.
art is the stroke of a paintbrush
and the scribble of a pen,
the sweetness of a melody,
and the snap of a clapperboard,
but art is also the way the grass sways in the wind
and the patterns the clouds form in the sky
and the rain’s decisiveness as to whether it will be
a delicate murmur or
a passionate roar.

art is when the harshest angles
and softest curves,
the highest of highs
and lowest of lows,
the brightest days
and darkest nights,
come together into something
that didn’t exist in a time before
you
made it
art is
unique and
bold and
brave and
you.
everything
about the art you create is
you. yourself. you
are your art. no one else could have made that but
you.
art is about how nothing in the known universe could have made what you just did
and how you just did
and why you just did
but you did.
and it’s beautiful.

I.

i’m alone. soon dead.

i’m going to die alone.

alone in my house.

II.

so open your phone,

and do not look at the news,

and pretend it’s fine.

III.

wish i’d remembered

to say hi to them before

the world fell apart.

IV.

the world fell apart.

even if this sickness ends,

the glass is shattered.

V.

you can’t fix the glass

after it has been broken.

we can’t fix the world.

VI.

week four of it all.

i’m going to die alone.

alone in my house.

in these trying times,

our houses locked and shuttered,

fear is the king.

I’M FINE.

don’t mourn for me.
don’t grieve for me.
don’t clasp your hands and pray for me.

i am not the one you wanted me to be.
i am not the one you thought i’d become.

i don’t need your comfort.
i don’t need your concern.
i don’t need your stares.
i don’t need your pity.

i don’t need your help.

i'm suffocating

an instant, an instant
the curtain closes
only a memory

you once promised me until the end of time
you once promised me forever
you once promised me infinity

i'm suffocating

she’s running, but
she’s not exactly sure what she’s running
from.
the wind in her hair keeps her mind
off of
the way her
heart is beating
faster
every
second.
she doesn’t know why
she’s so scared
and that fact,
ironically,
scares her.

maybe dreams are just realities
stuck into the heads of people stuck at work until five
the little whispers of futures and pasts,
the disconnected strands that our mind ties together
in a messy knot,
hoping we can make sense of the
whys and whos and whats and
wonders

fairy tales
are told
in black and
white.

life
is
grey.

there are the mountains
there is the sea
there is my whole life
right in front of me
stuck by the mountains
stuck by the sea
i’m losing my mind

trapped in a place where the sun never shines
didn’t i tell you? i’m losing my mind
yet i’m used to this now, so i’ll carry on
i’ll tell them that everything’s fine

i’m lost to the mountains
lost to the sea
lost to the world here
in front of me
dreading these mountains
dreading the sea
i’m losing my mind

trapped in a hole that nobody can find
didn’t i tell you? i’m losing my mind
this is a bad dream, but i can’t wake up
because there’s a fine line
between life and insanity