laughinglilac's blog

The sound of the humidifier fills the room,
pressing outwards, bending to fit into every corner,
and I cry.
Tears of joy, tears of sadness pour out of me,
my cheeks hot and my pillow stained with salty teardrops.
That uncomfortablee pressure was building up
in my throat, behind my eyes, and I cry
now. Alone, able to let go.
Eventually, it slows and stops. My hair is
messy, and I breathe slowly in and out.
Life in my lungs and heart.

She seems indestructible
The pretty, made-up eyes,
salon haircut.
But she's not as perfect
as she looks.
Inside, she's not sure if she knows
who she is,
what she wants.
She's confused and tired,
easily affected by comments that
don't seem to faze her at all.
Not so sure of herself,
does he really like her?
or is he just being polite?
why did she give me that dirty look
in the hall?
Insecure thoughts like these
run through her head.
When surrounded by friends, she's as strong as
a nail, Superglue.
But, alone, can she be?

Falling, crashing, crying
that sudden downfall,
when you finally realize that the guy
you've been obsessed with for a good few months
is just a jerk.
With an ego the size of Alaska.

But then a thrill of triumph
and anticipation
when you set your heart on a new
dream.
Finally over him and onto
someone new.

Run like the wind and it's as if your feet are autumn leaves swirling along the ground. The wind rushes through through your hair, cools your burning cheeks, and tears stream out of your eyes from the cold. You can feel the grass beneath your bare feet, and the chill of autumn seeps into your lips, making them numb. For a moment, it's like you've forgotten everything. You turn a cartwheel and keep running. It's a place of peaceful oblivion to your other life. The one where you argue with your mom but you know you love her anyways, where your movement is determined by the ringing of schoolbells, and where most girls drool over football players without considering whether they are nice guys or not. Where drama is a constant flow of energy throughout anyone and everyone, except for those who manage to avoid it, those who can visit this effortless place of tumbling rosy-cheeked calm.

This poem was inspired by simply looking at the cover of A Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray.

Rippling red hair,
secrets swirling,
whispering.
You can't catch them,
no matter how much you
grasp at the air with your mind.
Cream-colored lace
intricately twined
together.
By work-worn hands.

Picnic tables see a lot.
Happy families with red-checkered
tablecloths, cold chicken, and pie.
Angry families sullenly eating their soggy
turkey and cheese.
Frightened families running from a
yellowjackets' nest and eating in their car
instead.
Children sitting on the bench, their head
on the table, crying because they just can't
get their way.
Picnic tables are pounded by raindrops,
snow, sleet, hail, fists.
And warmed by the sunshine
making it's way through peeling red paint
and layers of wood
until the whole thing is dry.