There is a woman in yellow looking at me. She looks sweet like a buttery bread ready to be dipped in tea.
She is looking at me.
Her eyes brown like chocolate silk
As they flow down like chocolate milk.
She doesn’t blink.
Her face is blank, she doesn’t think.
Trying so hard to look mellow in all her yellow.
Her limbs are limp like jello.
Her skin looks cold
As if she needs someone to hold.
A sound of blasting thunder is sung
As she remains forever young.
She never looks away and she never makes a sound.
She melts like red butter on the ground.
There is a woman in yellow looking at me.
I was the last person she saw before she took herself out of her misery.
Tag Archives: writer
Basic – Ian Dean
Though provoked with adolescent struggle and pubescent instinct,
I still think I was naïve
Too naïve to see that in between the mist-ridden breaths of the deceivers,
One I could call betrothed to me, would break my allegiance.
The image was vivid, or maybe just arrogant sound piercing my ears causes me pain,
But I know that you, whose rapturing thrust shatters deep into my heart,
Hath betrayed me.
I sought appreciation and understanding,
And though little was given, I was thankful.
Never revealing your motive or peaked intellect, I knew only what was necessary.
You saw me,
Someone with little experience and even less self-confidence.
So quasi-decisive you satisfied your hunger with my innocent being
With no hope for any fowl retribution to mask your guilt.
In a sense of pure nostalgia, I would say how
You were sweet, kind, relatable, but yet so menacingly calm and distant;
Like the moon who orbit’s us.
I’d never gotten rushed into friendship, and although we weren’t attracted,
I felt tragically bonded to you.
I felt special and stimulated
As with drug’s first kiss.
Almost as I should have seen you coming, I began to love you.
I classified you as far greater than a simple friend, but a companion.
Though you’d rather devise a bloated stratagem as you devoured my sensibility and patience
As a frantic mouse in a serpent’s den.
The blow was sudden, and the kill was agile and swift leaving no wounds or signs of trauma;
Just more voids to fill.
And you, the one to have and to hold some grudge,
Raved for my collapse
Eventually gaining whatever sick gratification that doth ensure.
And you, the one to absorb my grievances,
Left me to rot;
Unconscious and stricken with the shock of my rejection that followed your dagger’s final clutch
You must think yourself the victress of my demise.
But I, more that you, can affect the perceptions of many;
My glory in failure.
I’ve cast a veil no mere property could disavow
After all, I have captivated your entity to total rage with my mere presence.
You are of a quantity so basic that you cannot even
Quell your own flaws to properly dismantle mine,
Inferior.
Respiratory Arrest – Samantha Forsyth
Mother is dying and you’re watching her. You’re left sputtering, coughing up tarred lungs in sterile hallways. Meanwhile, your face is tearstained, spilling out faster than it can dry. The back of your hand wipes across your face hard and the air is thin with anesthesia and disinfectant. There is a responsibility in your asphyxiation, an obligation you’re held to.
Last night, you went to bed without dinner, without saying goodnight. You knew you’d be sorry by morning, but it was supposed to be because mother would stay up worrying about you. Who will drive you to school tomorrow and who will yell at you for coming home late and who will you steal cigarettes from anymore.
One might question your upbringing, leaning in doorways like that. Waiting all hated and damned in intensive care, the ending won’t come easily for either of you. Tracheostomies are trying to heal behind gauze thick and damp. Blood spreading from behind, ugly and scarring and not how someone should look before they die.
But she was a daughter once too, wasn’t born into the poison skin she’s in now. Stealing cigarettes and smelling like smoke must have been hereditary, handed down and yours for the taking. That’s all you’ve ever been good at. In between the flatline tones and your first breath afterwards, the smoke hits back hard.
Lungs wrung out, you’re the only one left with chest heaving and breaths struggling. They soon surrender to sighs set so deep inside you, they once were your mother’s ashen inhales. But you don’t have to share those with her anymore, don’t have to tell anyone how you really feel about your mother’s death, and now you’re both feeling better.
Natural Disaster – Maria Gray
i. my best friend tells me
she is a misprint in her own life story
because no one has ever told her
she can narrate it herself
ii. at age twelve, the lightning
stretching across my hips demands
more attention than any other natural disaster
and even holding my skeleton together
seems like more trouble than it’s worth
iii. i am helping elementary schoolers
during their quarter-hour break
from a theater class, making sure
they fill up their water bottles
and nibble on their graham crackers
when one dark-eyed little girl
confesses she thinks she is too big
to let anything past her crooked teeth
iv. every magazine i’ve ever read
tells skinny girls to wear large shirts
to create the illusion of a bust
and tells larger girls to don
vertical stripes and straight cuts
to form a shrinking silhouette because
no matter a woman’s size
the most beautiful part of her
is always the negative space
v. i may usually be terrified of heights
but i don’t get vertigo when i look down
and see where i used to be because
it’s no secret: i am better off where i am
Sacrilegious – Reilly Wieland
You’re the proverbs in my mind, the John 3:16 that turns over inside of me- even if that’s
sacrilegious
I am religious in a way that my god does not wear white,
but drinks his coffee black because his lips are like sugar
You are the sin I am confessing, the word that comes to me in my time of need and the being I say my Hail Marys for
Your lips are like wine, blessed, and they are mouthing something to me while I scroll through the pages in a fruitless attempt to find parables that justify this
I’ve found Eden in your breath, and it feels like my skin is etched with gold, like North Star of your love.
I am not a saint, but a martyr, and even when I fail to find my faith, you resurrect like on Easter Sunday- gifting your wisdom that reeks like like gold, frankincense and myrrh.
The letters according to you stating that it will be okay have been written on my mind in permanent ash, running deep in my veins with the way that you make me feel like I could turn water to wine.
When you’re around me I feel sacrilegious, the way you have your hand wrapped around my thoughts makes me question my beliefs because
the facts aren’t as easy to fall asleep with as heaven is, sometimes
and I don’t want to ever read scripture again if it isn’t about the way that you look during the summers
My church has no damnation or forbidden fruit, it has stories and you, and the prophetic power that I felt when you asked me who my god was
Thoughts – Harika Kottakota
A solemn beauty
Profound and universal, rooted and blooming
That entails enigmatic tomorrows
Rimmed with ochre
A dear requiem
Of scarce constancy
Teetering between virtue and sin
Like spinning dimes
A dogmatic mutiny
Alloys rage with leadership for blades
Winds, now messengers of cinder
Dwindles into reason
A robust spirit
Inoculates joy, tranquilizes despair
As it pledged upon
The frontiers of space and time
Mountains Are Hard to Overcome – Brooke Safferman
The box of crayons lay on the coffee table, stains from early-morning espresso tattooed on the mahogany. Leona rose upon her four-year-old legs and waddled her way over from her napping mat to empty out all of the colors from the Crayola carton: Cerulean, Yellow Green, Green Yellow, Fuschia, Purple Mountain Majesty… Purple Mountain Majesty. Leona asserted her dominance over the crayon, pressing with as much force as her pudgy hand could muster until the tip shrunk away into dullness.
“Nice picture, Leona! I’ve never seen a purple person before in my life, but you’ve done a great job. Is that a tutu on him?” her father exclaimed. “Huh! Maggie, come look at Leona’s work!” Leona’s mother clacked across the marble floor in practical heels that were the perfect companion to her equally-practical pinstripe pant-suit.
“Oh, Leona!” Maggie’s voice echoed upwards thirteen feet to the ceiling. “Tell Mommy and Daddy about your pretty picture. James, go grab the video camera! We should save this.” Leona’s father galloped out of the room, searching for the Sony camcorder. Maggie peered over Leona’s shoulder to get a better look at the drawing. She bit her flawlessly manicured cuticles when she saw. “JAMES. You didn’t tell me that Leona drew… this! Come back in here right now. We need to talk about this!”
When he returned four minutes later, he pressed the “RECORD” button despite his wife’s displeasure, and Leona began her artist’s statement. “Purple Mountain Majesty is my most favorite color. It’s my favorite because it’s very pretty and so is the person I drew. He is a princess, because both boys and princesses are my favorite, too!” Leona giggled, kissing the princess.
James’s eyes widened as he whispered, “Should I keep recording?” Maggie bit her lip. Nodding her head, as making quick yet sound decisions was a talent of hers, she sat down on the burgundy leather couch and patted the cushion beside her. Leona loyally clambered up next to her, waving her picture in her mother’s face.
“Leona, aren’t people white or black, usually? You know people aren’t purple, right, sweetheart?” Eyes locked between mother and daughter. James puzzledly attempted to zoom in with the camera with no avail.
“You can’t tell if a person is good or bad if they are white or black. That’s why I picked Purple Mountain Majesty, because that is a color I love. So, I know this person is nice.”
Maggie flipped open her pocket mirror and applied her “Perfectly Passionate”-hued lipstick, which she always thought demanded attention. She turned to her husband. “James, shut the camera off.” James fervently shook his head in protest. “James, I mean it. Turn it off. Now.”
“No way, Maggie. Let her keep talking. Ask her more questions.”
Maggie blew a forceful breath out of her nostrils, and shut her eyes. “Fine. So Leona, honey, why on Earth did you make such a pretty princess be a boy for, huh? Mommy knows you love both boys and princesses, but princesses can only be girls!”
James finally turned off the camera. “Maggie.”
“What? It’s true! You want her to think that boys can wear fairy tutus and princess crowns and prance around as they please? I’m doing her a favor here, James. I’m doing us a favor.”
At that moment, Leona scrambled off the couch and plopped down next to her nearby arts-and-crafts box. She unscrewed the cap to the pink glitter, and poured the entire tube onto the form of the princess. James and Maggie’s eyes flicked back to meet each other’s glances.
“Spreading hatred is the opposite of doing us a favor. Let her do what she wants.”
“No! I will not have my little girl confused about the way things should be. Boys cannot be princesses, and people are not purple. End of story.” Maggie stood up, reaching for her structured leather briefcase. The cross-body style was practical, something Maggie not only adored but also used to rationalize paying $1,258 for it at the local Neiman Marcus. She was home for the afternoon only because her sister was coming into town. “And Jenna will be here any minute, and I expect you to be nice this time.”
Maggie clacked off into the master bedroom to change into something less office-ready, leaving James standing in the family room by himself. His brow furrowed. There’s nothing wrong with princess boys! Lee-Lee’s just a little kid; she can do whatever the hell she wants. Maggie needs to stop being so strict all the time. He kneaded his stubble a little too forcefully as he contemplated, leaving a red spot along his jawline.
Leona dumped the glitter off of her picture. It was only sticking to the tutu because she had squeezed some glue onto it, an action unnoticed during her parents’ mêlée.
“Maaaa-gieeeee!” Maggie’s twin, Jenna had the type of voice that made a guy wish he magically had earplugs lying around in his pockets. James stifled a groan.
“JENNA!” Maggie scurried across the floor, assaulting her sister with a hug. She had put on jeans and a cardigan, which although more casual than her pantsuit, were still very sensible.
“Hey, Jenna,” James mumbled. If Jenna heard him, she didn’t show it. The 28-year-old sisters compared everything constantly – careers, love lives, manicures. Competition was the norm with these two, and it gave James a tension headache. He shuffled into the bathroom to worship the Excedrin gods. Leona, on the other hand, worshipped Jenna.
“Leona, look how pretty you are! And my God, so grown up! You’re going to drive all the boys crazy with desire.” Jenna stroked Leona’s fine strands of strawberry blonde strands hair as her gaze drifted to The Drawing.
“I drew a boy right now, too!” Leona’s smile, lacking front teeth, was enchanting enough to cause Jenna to accept that there was a purple boy that looked like a princess waving around in her face.
“Can I get you some coffee.” Maggie didn’t wait for an answer because it wasn’t spoken as a question. She hurried into the kitchen and began fumbling with the Keurig.
Jenna reached out and held Leona’s paper in her hands, running her index finger upon the sticky glitter. “Leona… Oh, Leona, you did draw a boy, didn’t you?”
James emerged from the bathroom, massaging his temples. “She did a good job, Jenna. Purple Mountain Majesty is a great color. It’s a color of inspiration. Mountains are hard to overcome. You need a lot of strength, especially mentally, to climb them.”
“I know this. I think it’s beautiful, James. It might not be Maggie’s cup of tea, but I am a big fan of the arts. Can you get us some tape?”
Jenna took Leona by the hand and together they strode out of the room. That lady is so damn high and mighty, James thought. He soon joined them, tape dispenser in hand. Jenna pressed Leona’s drawing up to the girl’s bedroom wall with one hand, and gestured with the other to James for him to come over and help her out.
“There!” He smiled, smoothing the tape against the wall. Leona clapped her hands, her giggle frolicking throughout the room.
“NO.” Maggie stomped in, brusquely setting the coffee mug she was holding on Leona’s dresser. She made her way over to her daughter’s offending wall décor.
“Stop, Maggie!” Jenna tried to pry her sister’s hands off of the picture but with a final tug, Maggie obtained the purple-hued male princess in her well-groomed clutches. Jenna could only stare, unable to disguise the hurt in her eyes.
James stood back, raking his fingertips through his hair. If they were going to start arguing, he was not going to stay. Leona looked up at him, her rapidly blinking eyes wet with confusion.
“Come on, Lee-Lee. Wanna do something fun? Let’s go get you some ice cream!” Nodding, Leona locked an arm around her father’s leg, and wiped her nose on his jeans. He didn’t care for them much because they were a little tight in the seat, but Maggie insisted they looked great. They were from True Religion.
“James, wait.” All eyes shifted to Maggie. “Don’t go.” She looked. Her husband and little girl were going off to have fun without her.
“Why not? So I can watch you teach our daughter to buy into all this hatred and bullshit we’re force-fed to believe!?” He was next to his wife now, pointing one shaking finger at the paper in her hand.
“No,” she whispered, gazing down at Leona’s masterpiece. She began gently swabbing away tears with her thumb.
“Why, then?” he asked softly, placing his palm on the small of her back.
“I need more tape.”
Shining Reverie – Brooke Safferman
Shimmering reverie,
Where the statuesque mountains tower over uncharted streams as alert as you did
Those vivacious, pulsating nights as the stars did shine
Though not as bright as your wildfire eyes
And though not as bright as your electrical mind
Nothing can compare to the impulses of within
The internal itches that make one roused with a perverse delight,
Nor the external urges that make one tremble with anticipation of the indefinite, the unguaranteed
One time you instructed me to follow your lead
I agreed, dutifully, loyally, stepping along
My bare feet made ever-lasting prints upon the marshy rapture
My steps were to the pace of my own rhythm
But the sweet, sweet melody in the background,
Well, that was all yours.
You showed me, with a grand, sweeping gesticulation of your right arm
All that the world is composed of,
From the arcane way that blades of grass can be split down their centers
And create two out of what previously was only one
To the way moss grows upon pavement built of brick,
Creeping into crevices and finding itself a new home in the spaces I had never known to previously exist.
I suppose, in theory, you hadn’t provided me with too much
But yet, you thrust upon me a landscape, un-gated
A world of boundless expansion of the mind,
Reaching further and further into my nebular abyss
All you ever did was introduce me to life
But without such an overture as enchanting as yours,
I would have never known how simply sweet the melody is:
(The melody that we stepped to on that dazzling, radiant evening)
The Anthem of the Living.
The Regalities of Plainness — Bryn Bluth
I promised not to intrude, not to pull you apart thread by thread, only to restitch you into something you aren’t, someone more beautiful and poetic than you are, but I’m breaking that promise, Dear Friend, breaking one thing to fortify another, and I am sorry, because I hate to rift our friendship, but I need to do this. You will forgive me, I am sure of it, and if you don’t, that is your character in question. P
Through cascades of colored ribbon that are our voices, mine a solid forest green, yours, a vivid purple, I found you intriguing, a person of interest, someone I wished to know. My aspirations of friendship were eased through common threads in the textiles that we are made of; a favorite author, a fondness for music, and corresponding views on society made me comfortable with the concept of you.
Although I realize you may not see me as much, just a childish plaything there for your amusement, to talk to and soon forget about, I will have you know that I disregard your pretension, I am blind to every negative thing about you. This is not denial, it is the way I choose to live my life, and I hope that you might see this through your oblivion to the positive.
Hearing you hum out the emotions of you, plucking away six-stringed anxieties, I find myself thinking. You may say that I am always thinking, but in all honesty, I am really only over-thinking, which is so different from the trim, organized thoughts I think when a tune of yours is there to sift them out for me. I can’t remember serenity, what it feels like, but music takes my cluttered mind as close to it as possible, and yours is not the exception. Keep it coming, I long to hear your solemn expressions.
You, in one word, are an outlier, perpetually engaged in silent mental warfare with your own person, yet trying to contend with the frustrations and simple agitation of the world. There is no need to find yourself, only express it. I think you do a marvelous job, slipping snarky comments between utterances of pure comprehension, throwing us all off just enough to continue on with your independent cognition. I see what you are doing, and although I find it harder to communicate day by day, and my internal brilliance is held captive in a shell of naïve gaiety, I know the strategies of cerebral combat you are using, for I practically created them.
I realize you’d rather be left alone, rather recluse to the depth of your logic and never be human, but you don’t, and I am so thankful for that, because although at times I find you to be a conundrum, like the infinitely unsolved Rubik’s Cube sitting on my desk. I will always be here, me and my empty compliments, my empty compliments and I, we’ll wait for you. Until the day comes that you find yourself in need of justification, I will wait.
I realize now that I haven’t broken the aforementioned promise, that is, that I wouldn’t write you as something you aren’t. I haven’t broken it because everything I’ve written here is valid and honest, no author’s license needed, just a few metaphors. This epiphany does not counteract my firm stance that you will never read this, that is a promise that will remain standing, you will never read this, and I am sorry. I look forward to the day you wear those impeccable flaws on your sleeve, the day you show everyone and me past the tip of the iceberg, the day I know will come, because your webs of pretension and modesty cannot shield me from the depth of you.
@landlocks — Maria Gray
@landlocks– Instagram
she rents out a room in an upper chamber of my heart,
paying by the month until she grows bored of such
a dusty, overpriced place to stay and
what a hurricane that girl is, leaving a bitter
taste in my mouth until i can’t feel the words I speak
but maybe I’m better off not drawn to her
barbed escapades, not returning to my parents
in a matchbox accompanied by
staged sound effects of slamming doors
that made my bones shake
and no friend to apply makeup to my corpse:
i got the best that i could have gotten,
a mere aftertaste that taints the taste
of unplanned joy
she loses herself in her own living room sometimes
i mean now that she’s found a home that suits her
she called me for the first time
in six months and i couldn’t hang up
not when she’s cried and naked the speakers shake:
“I have no love to I’ve and it’s left me to lose”
choking in her apologies and
leaving them to invade her respiratory system,
becoming a part of her she can’t fully breathe out
until the day she sighs for the last time
Inkling 