You sound like him but your voice is softer, your words make more sense.
You sound like him but my heart doesn't stop, it just slows down a little bit.
You sound like him and it makes me wonder if I really love you or if I'm just looking for ghosts of him wherever I can find them.
I liked how he made the world fall away.
I like how you make me feel alive.
I hate thinking of him when I talk to you.
You almost look like him, in the right light when I'm sad and nostalgic.
But when the sun comes up and the way you say my name makes everything else melt you look nothing like him, nothing like a monster, nothing like danger.
How do you tell a dream apart from a nightmare when the monster and the prince could be twins?
Does magic still exist or is this just some delusion I've sold myself on so I don't have to be alone?
You sound like him, but it doesn't stop me from wanting you.
You look like him, but I want to look in your eyes for just another second.
You remind me of him, but then again so does the night time and the ocean and everything in between.
Tuesday, April 14, 2020
Saturday, April 4, 2020
A Star Collapsed
I thought I could trick myself into staying.
"He knows me...he just doesn't say it" I said to myself so many times.
But I know it's a lie and it's sour on my lips no matter the number of repetitions.
He looks at me and he sees the girl he met and he hasn't noticed I'm not her anymore.
He looks at me and I know what he sees; I used to see her too staring back at me in the mirror.
She was wide-eyed, on the brink of collapse.
She was a star just before it burns out- brilliantly bright and seconds from demise.
She was hollow inside but she smiled and listened and wasn't too loud.
She blended, learned to camouflage herself to stay safe.
She hid the bruises on her soul with a light voice the way someone might cover bruises on their skin with make up.
She did the same with the scars, slipping her foot on top of the drop of blood that fell on the floor to hide it.
I can see her so clearly, it's almost like she's here beside me and not just an echo of the past.
But that's not who I am anymore.
The girl in the mirror now is too tired to hide the pain.
She is the star after collapse-the black hole, big and vast and unknowable-starving to fill the void.
She isn't hollow anymore, she smiles, not as often but more true, and she's louder now; she's making herself known.
She blends in the way a shadow does, only when everything is dark; other than that she stands out like a dark silhouette on sun drenched concrete.
She doesn't hide the pain, she just hopes no one asks about the bruises and the scars; but if they do she tells them.
She doesn't have to step on drops of blood anymore because she stopped bleeding; now she just has to stop picking at the scabs.
I wonder sometimes how people who say they know me can look at me and not see this new person, this one who is healing and who isn't ashamed of the past.
I wonder how people who say they care about me never saw how the girl before was a shell.
I wonder how he talks to me and thinks he's so close to my heart.
I wonder how to tell him that we're strangers now and it doesn't really even hurt.
"He knows me...he just doesn't say it" I said to myself so many times.
But I know it's a lie and it's sour on my lips no matter the number of repetitions.
He looks at me and he sees the girl he met and he hasn't noticed I'm not her anymore.
He looks at me and I know what he sees; I used to see her too staring back at me in the mirror.
She was wide-eyed, on the brink of collapse.
She was a star just before it burns out- brilliantly bright and seconds from demise.
She was hollow inside but she smiled and listened and wasn't too loud.
She blended, learned to camouflage herself to stay safe.
She hid the bruises on her soul with a light voice the way someone might cover bruises on their skin with make up.
She did the same with the scars, slipping her foot on top of the drop of blood that fell on the floor to hide it.
I can see her so clearly, it's almost like she's here beside me and not just an echo of the past.
But that's not who I am anymore.
The girl in the mirror now is too tired to hide the pain.
She is the star after collapse-the black hole, big and vast and unknowable-starving to fill the void.
She isn't hollow anymore, she smiles, not as often but more true, and she's louder now; she's making herself known.
She blends in the way a shadow does, only when everything is dark; other than that she stands out like a dark silhouette on sun drenched concrete.
She doesn't hide the pain, she just hopes no one asks about the bruises and the scars; but if they do she tells them.
She doesn't have to step on drops of blood anymore because she stopped bleeding; now she just has to stop picking at the scabs.
I wonder sometimes how people who say they know me can look at me and not see this new person, this one who is healing and who isn't ashamed of the past.
I wonder how people who say they care about me never saw how the girl before was a shell.
I wonder how he talks to me and thinks he's so close to my heart.
I wonder how to tell him that we're strangers now and it doesn't really even hurt.
Thursday, April 2, 2020
Wildflower. Wallflower. Wildfire.
He is a mumbler when he speaks. I guess I'm hard of hearing and the two of us didn't make a great pair no matter how hard we tried.
I never understood what he wanted...or maybe I just didn't try hard enough to listen. He spoke in riddles and slurred his words together and let them slip out just beneath his breath.
I guess that's what happened when I thought I heard him say he wanted a wildfire. I guess that's why I thought I was right for him.
It turns out he wanted a wildflower. Someone bright and free and dazzling but still soft and beautiful and pleasant.
It turns out that's not who I am. It's who I used to be, but that's not enough because now I'm two steps away from that version of me.
All the pieces of me are too similar; wildflower, wallflower, wildfire. It's easy enough to get them confused; especially when he whispers no matter how many times I beg him to speak up.
If he'd known me back then, when I was bright eyed and saw the world through a prism of color and possibility maybe we would've had a chance. But he met me when I was a wallflower, clinging to the edges of reality with a fragile grip, ready to let go.
And now, he hasn't noticed that the wallflower caught fire and now I'm a raging, dangerous wildfire that burns up anything in my path. He hasn't noticed that the soft edges of me are burned up, turned to ash, turned to flame.
He thinks he knows me but he doesn't. He calls my blue-green eyes emerald and it just proves he hasn't noticed that there's quite a bit of blue in my sometimes green.
He thinks he knows me but he doesn't. He tells me I have my life together when if you asked him to name three things that make up "my life" I don't think he actually could.
Despite it all; all the miscommunication and the attention he doesn't ever pay, I still try to tame the flames and be the wildflower he wants. I try to turn the flicking tongues of destruction into poised nonthreatening petals.
Wildflower...wallflower...wildfire...what does it matter anyway? Whether I'm wild or tame he doesn't know my middle name; he doesn't know me.
He doesn't try. He just mumbles and drifts past me, only latching on when he's bored.
Wildflower...Wallflower...Wildfire...it doesn't matter. He doesn't see me.
I never understood what he wanted...or maybe I just didn't try hard enough to listen. He spoke in riddles and slurred his words together and let them slip out just beneath his breath.
I guess that's what happened when I thought I heard him say he wanted a wildfire. I guess that's why I thought I was right for him.
It turns out he wanted a wildflower. Someone bright and free and dazzling but still soft and beautiful and pleasant.
It turns out that's not who I am. It's who I used to be, but that's not enough because now I'm two steps away from that version of me.
All the pieces of me are too similar; wildflower, wallflower, wildfire. It's easy enough to get them confused; especially when he whispers no matter how many times I beg him to speak up.
If he'd known me back then, when I was bright eyed and saw the world through a prism of color and possibility maybe we would've had a chance. But he met me when I was a wallflower, clinging to the edges of reality with a fragile grip, ready to let go.
And now, he hasn't noticed that the wallflower caught fire and now I'm a raging, dangerous wildfire that burns up anything in my path. He hasn't noticed that the soft edges of me are burned up, turned to ash, turned to flame.
He thinks he knows me but he doesn't. He calls my blue-green eyes emerald and it just proves he hasn't noticed that there's quite a bit of blue in my sometimes green.
He thinks he knows me but he doesn't. He tells me I have my life together when if you asked him to name three things that make up "my life" I don't think he actually could.
Despite it all; all the miscommunication and the attention he doesn't ever pay, I still try to tame the flames and be the wildflower he wants. I try to turn the flicking tongues of destruction into poised nonthreatening petals.
Wildflower...wallflower...wildfire...what does it matter anyway? Whether I'm wild or tame he doesn't know my middle name; he doesn't know me.
He doesn't try. He just mumbles and drifts past me, only latching on when he's bored.
Wildflower...Wallflower...Wildfire...it doesn't matter. He doesn't see me.
Wednesday, April 1, 2020
Prompt: A sleeping dog/Old barn/Blazing fire
It was cold that night. So cold I could barely feel my fingers as I flicked the match across the strike patch on the box. So cold I was almost numb to all the pain that place had brought me. Almost.
Under the porch, were the wood was dry and exposed I couldn't help but think of the rooms above me. The blood was long washed out of the carpet in the sitting room but I still saw it, still smelled it, still felt it slipping underneath my feet. The hallway upstairs had been bleached and the carpet had been replaced but I still saw the body when I was on the top step, still heard my own scream ringing in the air, still heard the wail of sirens in the distance. Those were the latest pieces of tragedy to befall the old house but they were not the only ones. Time was not kind to the house or the inhabitants and I wanted so desperately done with the cursed place. To be done with the pain.
The wood caught quickly and for a second, I fell back on my heels and watched it burn. The fire was hot, bright, brilliant. It warmed me from the cold, dry air. When the blaze was too much, I tossed the match box into the flames and crawled away between the bottom steps of the porch and walked, slow and steady down the gravel drive.
Before me, the barn stood like a sentry at the front gate. In the doorway, Bark was sleeping away yet another night. He opened one eye when I fell into the cold dirt beside him and moved his head into my lap. If he saw the house he'd guarded his whole life burning down before him, he didn't act like it. Instead, he went back to snoring as I stroked his long, soft fur. The grey in his muzzle reminded me that he'd been witness to the dozens of mysterious catastrophes that had befallen us here.
I waited until the house was a giant, blazing inferno before I fumbled my phone out of my pocket. The operator knew my name when I called. So many calamities and the local authorities start to learn your name and address. She was asking me too many questions. Was I safe? Where did the fire start? How long had it been going? Was I hurt? Was anyone else inside? My voice echoed off the beams in the old barn. I was safe. I didn't know anything about the fire; I was taking Bark for a walk when I saw it. I wasn't hurt; for once. No one else was inside; for once. I heard the sirens before I even hung up the phone but a soft feeling of peace fell on me knowing they would be too late. It was finally over.
I didn't have to call my father. He knew when he saw the lights heading up our long, winding road that another tragedy has collapsed on top of our shrinking family. When he found me in the barn, Bark asleep in my lap, he let out a long held breath. He didn't ask any questions. He just sat in the dirt beside me. I think he was just as relieved as me. We watched them point giant hoses at the house but the damage was done. There was no saving it. No point in saving something that had never done its part to save anyone else.
Under the porch, were the wood was dry and exposed I couldn't help but think of the rooms above me. The blood was long washed out of the carpet in the sitting room but I still saw it, still smelled it, still felt it slipping underneath my feet. The hallway upstairs had been bleached and the carpet had been replaced but I still saw the body when I was on the top step, still heard my own scream ringing in the air, still heard the wail of sirens in the distance. Those were the latest pieces of tragedy to befall the old house but they were not the only ones. Time was not kind to the house or the inhabitants and I wanted so desperately done with the cursed place. To be done with the pain.
The wood caught quickly and for a second, I fell back on my heels and watched it burn. The fire was hot, bright, brilliant. It warmed me from the cold, dry air. When the blaze was too much, I tossed the match box into the flames and crawled away between the bottom steps of the porch and walked, slow and steady down the gravel drive.
Before me, the barn stood like a sentry at the front gate. In the doorway, Bark was sleeping away yet another night. He opened one eye when I fell into the cold dirt beside him and moved his head into my lap. If he saw the house he'd guarded his whole life burning down before him, he didn't act like it. Instead, he went back to snoring as I stroked his long, soft fur. The grey in his muzzle reminded me that he'd been witness to the dozens of mysterious catastrophes that had befallen us here.
I waited until the house was a giant, blazing inferno before I fumbled my phone out of my pocket. The operator knew my name when I called. So many calamities and the local authorities start to learn your name and address. She was asking me too many questions. Was I safe? Where did the fire start? How long had it been going? Was I hurt? Was anyone else inside? My voice echoed off the beams in the old barn. I was safe. I didn't know anything about the fire; I was taking Bark for a walk when I saw it. I wasn't hurt; for once. No one else was inside; for once. I heard the sirens before I even hung up the phone but a soft feeling of peace fell on me knowing they would be too late. It was finally over.
I didn't have to call my father. He knew when he saw the lights heading up our long, winding road that another tragedy has collapsed on top of our shrinking family. When he found me in the barn, Bark asleep in my lap, he let out a long held breath. He didn't ask any questions. He just sat in the dirt beside me. I think he was just as relieved as me. We watched them point giant hoses at the house but the damage was done. There was no saving it. No point in saving something that had never done its part to save anyone else.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)