I poured Cupid into paper wings and when the origami butterfly didn’t fly, I gathered rainwater from my eyes and tucked heaven’s silence into my ribs. But ire metastasizes, and my blood now cries pearls for the fallen angel, risen cynic, an odd metalloid of child and higher being.
I metamorphose subconsciously, and the half of me that is my mother’s hair and cheekbones tuck away my soft parts in fear that I will metabolize them and self-destruct, utterly alone. She needn’t have worried. Fly away hairs are cherubs that hold their bowed promises to baby skin, powdered sugar that tastes like superfluous nothing.
So I will still have my brownie, if only in teenage defiance.
Lately, it feels like time has left me behind. A finals week apparently doesn't feel like finals without the exchange of small gifts and warm words between stressed teenagers, and Christmas doesn't feel Christmas-y without the being a tad more than fashionably late to an obligatory family get together at Mà's house where we smile and get presents that will be returned the next week.
This winter break, like the majority of the year, has been different. Not necessarily good different or bad different but like many things, a healthy mixture of both. I can't hate 2020, and I won't hate 2020. Because, though bitter, quarantine gave me YWP. It gave me a better sense of self, and it gave me many realizations that, though many led to more journeys than actual ends, was more satisfying than anything I had found before.
Leatherback tales, spin me a turtle of stars tattooed on skin moon washing sand and people who live without breath keep the tiny grain, boundless pages keep curator, the leatherbacked
Ther's a cardboard cookie on the table that tastes like Middle School it is warm in my stomach as cold crumbs line clammy calluses But it still yields to my teeth as I bite too much stale worries and never enough chocolate It is the little photobook that is bitter on my tongue, but tastes of decadent strands of summer caught on ivy webs, we call cafeteria tables A past & a prophesy of lost melodies folded in lonely books for the next sixth grader who sucked on apple lollipops of drama mouth puckeringly addictive and of boys that whispered carelessly in halls for all to hear of the insurmountable feat of tricking overpriced vending machines for bags of
air
because part of us knew High School, the Beyond would be hard of oxygen So, there's a cardboard cookie on the table
Hi everyone, For my Girl Scout Gold Award Project (which I think I might've mentioned in an SDJ way back when), I'm conducting a series of creative writing workshops with my local library. I've actually just hosted the first one (journaling) this past Saturday, and I thought I might invite you all as well. It's not quite the same as the fantastic ones Alex holds (because I'm pretty new to this whole presenting thing + they're for specific genres), but I think they're pretty fun. I've found for myself that even if I'm already are very comfortable with the genre, it's also a great way to set aside a period of time to writing.
(Ideally) these workshops will: - briefly explain each genre of writing, - provide a safe environment to share, - give feedback & encouragement, - & let you express yourself!
No choice, no way betrayed your conscience one too many times caught red handed, but you open your fist lined palms conceal the fact, that guilt has long departed
they were filled with empty jewels promises you failed to keep refracting the guilt on fate, you blame the stars you love your son
so you stab the family photo of strangers, fighting for survival, just like you drown my mother to keep his alive
no? am i wrong to blame you instead of balls of fire somewhere beyond the sky?
here you stand free, in blue jeans burning diamond daggers against my throat clenched hands, the one that pushed us to the edge
