an aggressive poem about rain

I can feel the rain on my skin I

FINALLY

Can feel wetness that was not

Created by my own body

Fuck

Yeah

I am free,

Bitch

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heart/chest/heart/beat

I used to be afraid of drums

When we went to parades

And I sat on my father’s shoulders

I could feel them in my chest and it scared me

I wanted to run and hide

I didn’t love music

I didn’t live for it, like I do now

Now I hear that beat

And I realize I feel it in my heart,

Not my chest

 

When I was younger

I didn’t love the stage

The theatre bored me

I had no interest in watching people perform

but that changed a some point in my youth

Now, performance is what I live for

Although I was born to be spectator first,

Performer second

Rarely and never necessary

 

I wonder if

When she sits there

In the back row

Legs crossed and a smirk

Like some kind of rock and roll goddess

I wonder if

She wants him

I wonder if

She knows he’s still hers

When he puts on an actor’s mask

And picks up an instrument

When he’s a rockstar for the night or just the hour

I wonder if

Is he looking at me?

Object Permanence

sugar,

water,

purple petals sprinkled

and mixed in a big silver pot

reduced and strained, poured

into a tall glass bottle

shaped like Paris’ favorite monument

kept in the fridge

to be combined with penguin seltzer

in an ice-filled glass

when the summer has finally warmed enough

to sit outside,

on a pink and green quilt,

and sip

those purple petals

adorn the dashboard

of a character I made up

named after a Norse goddess

and turned into a werewolf

the same small purple petals

that a broadcasting company attached to my story

when they marked me as top five

and made my name worth googling

and solidified my place as a writer

sugar,

water,

purple petals

that I want attached to me, drawn

permanently

as a reminder

of hot summer days when the lavender bloomed

and the bees went mad,

swarming our overflowing garden

as a reminder,

too,

that creativity is not a choice for me

writing,

regardless of who does

or doesn’t

shortlist my words,

is as much a part of me

as the ink on my skin

importantly permanent

a reminder,

too

that I am an artist

that I am a writer

that I am still the girl on the pink and green quilt

It Didn’t Happen Like This

He noticed her when he walked in. She had mousy brown hair and a smile that looked like it shared a secret with her eyes. She was drinking espresso out of a tiny cup that didn’t match its saucer and writing in a notebook, surrounded by the debris of an artist at work. Pen caps, ink smudges and empty mugs laid in her wake. She looked up when he walked in, just like she looked up when anyone did, searching for someone to incorporate into her stories. Their eyes caught for a second, sending her blushing and him coughing awkwardly into his fist. He ordered his coffee, something he hated but drank anyway because it fit his image.

He watched her slyly, and when his heavy latte was placed into his hand, he took a small leap of faith. Footsteps approached her small window table, but she was busy now, half deafened by the voices yelling in her head. “Hi,” he said. She finished scribbling, a pointed period punctuating the uncomfortable pocket of silence inside the crowded coffee shop. “Can I sit?” The cup shook a bit in his uneasy fingers. She had been approached before, her silence there only because confrontation made her clam up. He pulled out the empty chair across from her and sat, sending her stomach fluttering. He was well dressed in a simple grey sweater that matched the sky outside.

“You’re a writer?” He waited, she blinked. “Aren’t writers supposed to be good with words?” She smiled at him, laughed a little.

“Only on paper, evidently.”

He looked relieved, now that her mouth had opened. Two sets of shoulders relaxed. Luckily they had enough to talk about, so him and her because us/we/them on a rainy, fateful summer afternoon.

Breakable, breakable

I thought I was breaking your heart,

but it was you who broke mine.

And it was silly to think, because you’re a city and

I am just a blip on your massive timeline.

I am just a human. I am nothing to you.

I didn’t even etch a single mark into you.

You are a collection of age old buildings and cobblestones.

You have survived great wars.

I am a collection of breakable, breakable bones

and skin that’s so easy to tear.

I haven’t survived anything.

You became my favorite place in the world and I was easily forgotten.

January 3, 2017

It snowed on New Years

At midnight, flakes fell

Clockwork

They blanketed the New Year in white

Sparkling and clean

People danced in the street

Lit flames against the indigo night

Kissed with snowflakes in their hair

 

Days passed and the snow stuck

Only to the grass and rooftops

Ice dangling from the tree branches

And topping off fences

It’s no longer soft and new

But on the third of January

It’s only fitting

 

The snow is an almost desperate reminder

Of clean slates

New starts

But as the days wear on

The snow is stamped down and mixed with dirt

Looking dejected

 

The snow will melt if the temperature ever rises

And when January turns over

Where will we find a reminder of hope

Nothing But Nostalgia

Nothing But Nostalgia

I miss the Romance of European cities. Maybe more than the cities themselves.

I miss Paris and Amsterdam and Berlin. I don’t miss them in the same way I miss London because they were never home.

I miss these other cities in a superficial way. I miss the foreign languages and the new food, the museums and the history. I miss Paris’ light in the winter and Amsterdam’s bicycles and Berlin’s pockmarked walls. I miss thrift stores that are cramped and old and full of unusual silhouettes. I miss the monuments.

I miss the way I felt, exploring new places, tasting stories. I even miss being annoyed at my parents in the way only traveling creates. I miss drinking champagne and eating artisanal truffles on my sixteenth birthday.

I miss walking ancient streets, noticing the sunlight in a new way. The light is different in every city.

I’m romanticizing; Paris is dirty and Amsterdam is sinking and Berlin is crumbling. But I drew and I walked and I wrote.

I miss the cities I see in photographs. In an intimate but distant way. It is not an ache, it’s only a twinge, but it runs through the roots I grew halfway across the globe.

img_6572The monuments,img_4754the light,img_6566the museums,img_4842the ancient streets,img_4844the creating,img_4828and the history.