The tight, sharp scent of fresh paint weaves familiarity into my lungs. I am lit by a current of warmth and streaming stillness as my eyes reflect the existence of last light. The peeling window is a transparent telescope, bending in burning contrast, curtains of blank, lifeless ice, still rivers down ripped brown bones. It shapes the dusty calm of brightness, shifting patterns and forming minuscule, precise rivers of luminescence to display on my open face. My mind drifts forward in the river of impossibility. I see my own eyes project what can never be elsewhere imagined onto the stark, crisp canvas. Fingers grasp the marked old stem of ideas failed, of visions brought to life, my nimble fingers relentless in rubbing its dried personality, chipping away, silent.

Ⅰ.      My mother wonders why I don’t like watermelon. Why I don’t like red lips smacking, spitting out the seed and sucking down to the rind. They are too watery for me. I want something substantial. Something real. Something I can leap to and grasp. I don’t care for a melon I can rip apart with my bare hands. She should feed me poetry instead. Lyrical longing, paper pans, red ripe suns flavored with salt from the Atlantic. I would gobble it down and beg for more. 

Ⅱ.     My siblings always seem feather light. If you try to keep them grounded they just float away. They act like the world exists for them. My brother and sister are dancing after dark. They are fireflies kept in jars that bang against the walls until they inevitably escape. If I were to write about them, the words would probably shake, shout, bicker and laugh themselves right off the page. 

Ⅲ.     I’ve always liked to skip. Since my birth I’ve been skipping: 
         crying 

Last night, I went down to the water just before it got dark. I sat on the seawall with my knees close to my chest and smelled the salt. The water was grey, but it reflected the burnished purple of the sky. How many times have I skinned my knees on those rocks? How many times have I broken myself open and gotten sand in my wounds? I feel rugged and ripe. I suppose that is what comes from living in a beautiful town situated on a crumbling cliffside.

I bruised the seagrass until it smelled alive.

Write about a relationship (friendship, romantic, etc) you've had in your life that you've had to 'break-up'. Write about the 'break-up' from the other persons' Point Of Veiw. How did they feel? How were the affected? 

 

YWP Contest #39 Nice

If I could speed up the evolution of everyone I would make it so everyone could see everyone else as a person, as a person just like everyone else. No matter who they are as a person but for people to be able to see that we are all human and that no matter what if we are black, white, or mixed. Or if we are male, female, trans, non-binary, gender fulid, or something else. Or if we are in the lgbtq+ or not. Or even if the pronouns are she/her, he/him, they/them, or something else. Because we are all people but not everyone doesn’t sees that...
 

I slowly opened my eyes and sat up in the backseat of my mother’s car.

“How long has it been?” I groaned.

“We’re here. I was just about to wake you up.”