A WINTER STORY -

December,

Life with you

In the midst of winter, tones of white. Snow; undisturbed, coldly white and opaque.

Shades of warm and cool, fading navy skies, flickering lights outside abandoned schools and a brew after morning suns, balconies of wooden flooring and astonishing views of travelling lights, trying to find warmth in winter light.

Ginger brown locks and soil-seated deep eyes in the very shape of almonds, ode of the fresh thrifted mixture of lavender and wood, a kiss of his flickers through my stomach as it lights up every dark corner right below my epidermis.

January,

My favorite smile, you get more beautiful each day, words are not enough to intimate sentences of the shimmering periwinkle and golden of your skin and bones.

February,

Feeling like putting hands on something sharp is everyday, invincibly temporary

Of course.

On a February dawn, where the lamps’ lambent spheres bob in and out of glimpse—as the sunshine overcomes presence—being with you, like souls dancing in the fires of Hell, an ogre of a dream, a curse to be this shadow compared to the glow of a divine- which is you.

You are the other half of my being and I am

Incomplete.

Nostalgia chimes, and I answer her calls

 In between burning suns and melting moons, the dark silver lining that exposes itself in fine shards of hope takes me on a walk to question me about my placement on the ground beneath me. it often questions me about answers I don’t believe to have. As she hears my silence, she pulls the carpet beneath me as we wander in-about my past. Nostalgia chimes, and I answer her calls- willingly. I knew about the questions she’d ask yet silence seemed opt. Even though she pulled the carpet from beneath, I knew she was. Nostalgia often knocks at my door – it is no guest, yet with every visit she turns out to be my sorrow. An Undiagnosed illness which frequently visits to poke my dermis with slight salutations, yet the harm feels awakening. Even if its with cold water or a sharp edge.

Reality is she – taunting often.

Defrost the winter in your chest— I want you to feel summer.

  ‘Cause frost clasps your skin in custody, as your tears become cold just a second before they drop down your jawline— you live as obscure as an iceberg situated at sea. If only you knew that summer would fall at your feet, as she would remedy the ice your winter carries, she’d pick out every snow snirt and place it across her flower fields. She’d lay the sun on every tear before ice hit its peak, so you feel— feel summer. But she’d never melt the white snow across your fields, as she’d only carry out the blues and let you stay home. She’d sometimes only ask for you to defrost the winter in your chest, so she could make you feel summer. So she could make you feel the warmth, the afternoon breeze, so she could make you feel— feel loved. Loved by her.

A Psalm for us –

Some day when the west of the city inflicts a hailstorm towards the east coast, the rapid breeze will fill our graves in clock spaces and our ashes will rebirth colliding near our skin and setting their pace in our matter, as I will maybe say I believe in destiny, and won’t speak of coincidence. I will mend our way in lanes which would fall apart in presence of two feet, as you will love me the way a petal flourishes in every root’s breath, you will let me know that you can now love me as the dead, mourn me as the living, and touch me as a lover. I’d read to you as love stories of two in history and religion will altogether be our facsimiles, I will not have to paint the dry walls hollow as an illusion for escape, I’d taint them in gore, and write in wicked ancestry as prayers for our souls– as this will be a psalm for you, in secrecy to mollify me.

 

How I’d write you in poetry, like in the armed books of women to their first love –

The moon looked more vividly warm that night brushed against the clouds, the wind was curled up in the west of the city, and the sky had a light tint of blue, like it was making the most idyllic scenery for us to finally meet eyes, to touch souls, held hands as we walk past cremated walls of the past us, I left flowers for us near the grave with carved names of us as I decided to lock eyes with you just for a second my world stopped, paused.

I felt my heart in my stomach wrapped in your arms. Gasped for air, as the air seemed lighter to breathe around your ode. The clog in my mind didn't put on weight as I recollected all the shards of the mirror, I epitaphed missing you, glued it together so I could give it to you, to love the maimed of me. And the defeated of yours. And the flawed of us.

For the first time, I've felt so close to you, like I know every bridge of your soul that takes off downhill and every smile that's from the depth of your bones, like I  recognize you enough. 

In the way the numb takes over the surface of your emotions, captivates it until you feel the dusk in the sky. Some days the dawn seems better on you, some days the tide overflows you, some days you manage to float on it, and some days I seem better with you. I'm not sure I know all of you, but in what I've collected, knowing you has made me want to ache with you, to breathe with you. The part of me which wanted to cease breathing has been wanting to inhabit this body just for you. To resound my soul next to yours, to pace my breath with yours.

The shard of the glass

How Emily Dickinson would write it – the shard of the glass. 

Fearful of the crystal shaped glass placed on the tablecloth embroidery, the way it spills as its unfurling the glitz I carry, it speaks to me in a crude language, away from the breath I carry, it’s my heart of fear that - it carries. Pecan wood, a box of square the way it sheds, from the amidst to the base, my heart shatters as it heals. 

Here lies the remains of the tales to forbid.

The intoxication the glass dissolves, lures me to the flashy paint, here’s what was promised of the rules – no indoor games. Behind the curtains I see a yard, the green flows, and it doesn’t tear, the opposite of reality is where my heart lies but my mind controls the obscured ties. 

I felt a burial in my skin as the shovel dug too deep, the cremation carried the fire of the weak, and the eyes to not be seen. The verses written on my bones were too slight to even notice, yet he made sure the world would surely distinguish, now I lie in nature as a flower or some fruit, I sometimes bloom as the daisies of the sun and sometimes fall pink on the person looking up.

The shard of the glass spoke in unspeakable ways, it slit the clog in my throat in untouchable ways, or should I say? It creeped me out of my misery, gave me the solace necessary. To be given as a flower to the sun that once shunned my power. 

Here lies the crystal glass – to having me. 

My truth – four walls

Living in a false reality. The truth being right in sight of my eyes, written all over my body. In bullet points. Reasons. Filling in every inch of my matter. Essence in my room filled with blood and tears, the pillowcase is shriveled in salt water, bedsheets with leftover blood from the cutting blade, pile of clothes aside the window, bad days written all over them. A silver- lined mirror with a reflection I can't bear to look at, fresh cuts on my thighs, expired food sitting beside me, and a few crystals I lost faith in, an altar full of sculptures of deity's front of me watching me scream help every day, a brown bar cabinet, all kinds of shaped glasses, bottles of alcohol sitting steady, and a few deranged empty bottles in the sink, the kitchen smells of old whiskey and a shot glass to go with, these four walls have built a material truth that I can't now ignore, my truth.

I distract the show and tell of these non-living things with lit candles and hot showers, discipline and the organization of a few sheets and here I am free, for now. Until the wave beneath my bed hits the surface, floods it, and the sirens feed on me, ripping my skin into the fourth layer of my flesh eaten horridly to the depth of my bones lying without a breath never sounding so deluged of pain to be silenced even in agony is to hurt more than the torment of the devil’s ace. And that is my truth. Four walls. Built with cement and bricks, furnished with seven-year-old wood and glass and two blood related casts, the abused and the abuser in one house playing switch, leaving the end to know which is which. A burning house, on the edge it stays waiting to be pushed down the unknown depths of beyond the 8-bricked cliff.