Last month Someone told me "You know Zoe, you're not a very nice girl." I asked for more information It was quite a terrible accusation They said I wasn't unkind I wasn't unpleasant I wasn't untrue I just wasn't a nice girl It struck a chord in me because I've spent my whole life trying to be nice The Wonder Bread of a woman Soft Sweet Dull Unpleasant when paired with lettuce I don't want to be forgettable, but certainly not someone to be remembered And it turned out, I was a complete failure I've failed at a lot of things in my life Basketball, softball, soccer, tennis, consistency with book clubs, knitting, interpretive dance, ventriliquism, a promising in career in scones But a failure to complete the basic tenets of womanhood was not on my 2023 bingo card Too was the word he used to sum it up
I cannot write That is called a blockage It's also hard to speak right now and That is called a talkage I wished upon a star last night That's what I'd call hope And then watched it burst into flame I think your God said nope
Yes, I know your hands like roadmaps Your eyes, banded and shadowed as Jupiter Earth and Mars lying somewhere far behind them and my hands woven between yours I know the slope of your shoulder like the feel of my well-worn bansiter The dip of your collarbone like the topography of my bedstand The contour of your fingerprints like how I know my own breath at night I know your footsteps, I have heard them in desolate supermarket aisles and the crackling of pine needles on the forest floor and the smooth jazz my father falls asleep to Trick question, your voice is a baptism from city smog, railroad tracks make you nervous and ravens are terrible liars Left. When in doubt, skew left I know your fingertips like monks know the chase of peace, as cows know rain, as a grandmother's knees know when a storm is rolling in Have I proved my worth to you? Is it enough to know your hands like roadmaps
The cold, its tendrils of wind like fingers wrapping my coarse being, the snow, like needles prickling my skin.
The warmth, its blossoming beauty like a flower in May, the sun is kneaded in my tender hands to become strong and bright.
The warmth rises from within me and shines, and the cold nods away into dusk, awaiting. I exist beside the fingers of icy breeze, but let my inner warmth and light push any darkness away from seeping inside of me, radiating, pushing with soft rays of yellow light.
I am a vivid, beautiful light in the seamless dark that I allow to surround me, yet never engulfing me. I am whole.
The village was quiet, any remaining voices reduced to a soft lull as the sun set over the vast multicolor hills on the horizon. The cobblestone streets were washed in orange-gold light, tall shacks casting shadows into the alleys between houses. It was a beautiful day, the closest to a clear sky in weeks. I couldn’t fault the weather, the wet season will happen whether anyone likes it or not. And the clouds were stark white—soft looking, like sugar—so I couldn’t complain about that either. And what I really couldn’t complain about was being with Romeo. I was lucky to have him here for the day—the whole day—usually I’m lucky to see that man for a couple of hours, at best, with how busy he is. But I wouldn’t think about that, not when we’re sitting together under the warm sun on a soft blanket, watching it set.
i felt the mascara run down like broken fountain pens like trauma we wish to forget— but patterns the psyche like bloodstains on a white dress
my heart has been still since you’ve said those words; the shell of my body has moved soullessly and poetry won’t repair this because
my mind circles you like vultures
—but maybe there’s solace in the soft fabric of old headphones. worn.
and when i put them on, everything else is gone and nothingness is bliss and life is softer to the touch, not overstimulating, because songs are just poetry brewed on the beauty of musical strings.
and when i hit play, suddenly i’m transported into kendrick lamar’s m.A.A.d city of Compton, phoebe bridgers’ Kyoto skies,
Darling, I'm going nowhere. I have been for a long time, but now I can fully accept it; now, I can choose to go nowhere. Goals, what are those? I'd rather disappear into translucent clouds and spend a lifetime sailing amongst stars. No one to bother me, no one for me to bother. I'll be all alone, just me and the universe. No responsibilites. Nothing to worry about. But before I prepare to spend the rest of my life vanishing into nothingness, I have one last question - Will you join me? -your lost love x
Right now, my Truth is that I am alive. I am Alive, and it hurts, and it’s beautiful, and it’s a cage, and it is freedom. My Truth is that I live in Love, my Truth is that everyday is one soaring Flight, my Truth is that all I have is this flowing Heart and an anonymous, infinite, ocean of a Soul.
My Truth is that I am Human, that I open my hands palm side up, to welcome my Friends. My Truth is that this is all I can give: Words.
My Truth is that I am kind. I am selfish. My Truth is that I am gentle. I am hurt. I am tired. My Truth is that I am so full of life and wondrous energy that I could spin with my arms stretched open under the stars and the wind and the bright, bright sun for eternity.
My Truth is that I am true. I am no one thing, but I am true. I’m a paradox, unending. I’m so full of pain that I only want to love.
(The sweets adorn my stained-glass memories – they float like forgotten dreams)
Gulab Jamuns taste like old summers and friends now torn-apart by dwindling youth. They’re so sweet that cheap candy seems sour, so sweet that everything else in the world seems bitter. They say it brushes against your lips like white roses and heaven flows down your throat. It’s a love once broken, now rekindled. (Sugar-coated compliments hit the mind like syrup hits the tongue. You were once on that balcony above everyone, but your feet stumbled, and now you’re falling but you think you’re flying. Air brushes against you eternally until it doesn’t and the ground meets your face. Truth is agony and your dreams are broken bones, aren’t they?)
Light sobbing in the bathroom stall Aren't we all crying a bit on the inside? Report cards are passed out, the same pleas and worried voices "Can you make my B+ an A?" "My parents are gonna be so mad..." "I should've studied more." Disappointed, we hug ourselves, And remember that this is our life now.
Exiting the classrom The soho dolls pass you by Lips tainted like porcelain figures, Wearing the cool clothes you saw online but couldn't afford. Aliens to the real, regular world Floating on a thick cloud of sexy and sweet that cloys you. But you have to remember that this is your life now. Everyone feels this way, so there are no soho dolls, or cool kids. Right?
The bus is even worse You shirk by the other students down the crowded aisle And it's loud. Music can't drown anything out anymore. You're plagued by the infamous bouncing leg.
i began writing my will and goodbyes at 13; after every night i waited for my death bed to hold me in an unconscious embrace and to cradle me until i returned to our Mother,
i anticipated my rebirth to commence at 14; i endured the unforeseen stumble onto loves knife, while my twin flame burned third degree scars i blindly thanked both of them for bestowing
pain rather than leaving me empty, then came 15; i banished fire, too destructive for my wounded world, wynorrific tree of heaven’s pioneered the second succession in coming-of-age stories, and
when the retreat of fog revealed a serene 16; i thought maybe this is what people know as faith, instead of worshiping Grim i began venerating Future, i meticulously wrote my new script with the love
i should have always gifted myself, but today is 17; every year prior i addressed my bare death bed,
i can't look away, it's impossible there are mirrors all around, covering the walls, the floor, the ceiling and if i try to turn away, i see you again standing there in your clandestine beauty, eyes glimmering with laughter from a joke no one else knows, gliding over mirrored floors as if you don't notice everyone looking at you knowing you don't belong to them but wishing anyway
if only you could hold me in the palm of your hand you'd caress me against the winter wind and whisper in my ear when i wake up after a nightmare telling me it was just a dream telling me i'll be all right and i know i will be once i look into your eyes and see green trees and blue skies and daylight and i'll hold onto you like a piece of driftwood because you're my lifeline, the one i count on to bring me through stormy seas to safety as lightning cracks the midnight sky
These are the best years of your lives, they tell us, so stop pretending you're truly suffering. Chin up, they tell us, mask your grimace with your widest smile because everthing is fine. Stop complaining, they tell us, middle-school kids can be annoying but just ignore them you're better why succumb to their level and get angry? You're on the cusp of adulthood but not quite there yet so enjoy this moment while you still can where you have responsibility but don't have to fully take care of yourself and please don't slam the door you're just being dramatic.
I'll stare at them and want to scream, but I won't, because I'm thirteen and I know better. I'll just walk away and pretend I don't care, because maybe they're right, maybe everything's fine. But then I remember-- I remember a younger version of myself who couldn't wait to be a teenager,
