one in every six Americans is born to a hospital in California- but how many of them wear feathered-stuffed-fedoras in rural Georgia?
I think it's the psychology- growing up, just a girl stuffed into crowds, just a frizzy head among a bevy of ladies in spin class, reading clubs, tea parties and youth circles- the yap-yapping is background noise to you, and they're ask-asking, and you're mostly contemplating the meaning of the white specks beneath unpainted nails could they resemble clouds, fly away my dreams, my signposts
you're one of four siblings, then shipped off a ways to new york public schooling- what does that do to a girl- the uptight frenzy bustle of a minute, subway angst, free-falling side of gamble I think there's just a million sunny pieces of me now-look here's one I give to you to hold
that time we played the saxophone- I remember that moment- stood atop the table heaving up asthmatic, brassy gut-songs I hope you treasure that piece I just gave you.
I am here mostly to nurse and lick the wounds, contemplate the meaning of these ridges and whorls on my thumb, if the girl is not in her thoughts, where is she? she looks and sees them each spark-spark- strike-and-ignite inside the head, something like flamed moths these thoughts or who then, is the girl if not her body- don't get me started about the wrinkle cellulite bagged eyes thigh-butt-pits and so much love in that tight squeeze, love of color -full of wine.
oh love, how i love the way the morning rises- the way the thoughts fog, and the body hums away her breaths, rattling what it is to be living and stirring and falling out of bed, because
as we've just ventured, she's not in the thoughts and she's not in the body, and we're still looking
the girl one in a six hundred million on this side of the atlantic, closed, clam-shut, self-censorship and a lot of crossed arms squeezing for grips, and boundaries, like I'm trying to hold on to this fragile rope- and afraid there's nobody but me who sees the bottom
so, tell me, what it would mean if we were to let her go.
And the scores for Round 2 are out! Keep in mind that some of these last eliminations were within tenths of points so there were some really close match-ups. Those with names in bold are the winners and will be moving on to Round 3.
The mirror whispers in my ear, murmurs sweet nothings like a quiet flute arpeggio, and blows a soft stream of air over my neck. It pays me compliments composed of color, writes a backward symphony of light inspired by the hills and shadows of my face.
I stretch in the dance studio, and the mirror reflects back elegant lines smooth as a saxophone in a ballad. I lean forward with a black pen of eyeliner poised to pull operas out of my irises with the temptation of daring black lines.
Oh, vanity! in my heart and my bathroom, who taught you to sing so strongly?
"I've got dreams like you--no really!--just much less, touchy-feeley. They mainly happen somewhere warm and sunny on an island that I own, tanned and rested and alone surrounded by enormous piles of money." -Flynn Rider, Tangled
Congrats to everyone so far! I love all of your stuff. <3
Spoiler! :
in April, all of my hollow places fill with water-- and like hospital patients who drown in the fluid in their lungs, I drown inside of myself grâce à paper-thin skin and self-doubt.
this April, someone ignited a lantern, and that tiny fire is hope. it burns, just a bit, in my paper-bag lungs; but at least the waters look inviting as my tiny raft of a heart struggles to stay afloat.
Quiet, the therapist is on to me now, and the baby crying and the climate's a lion's maw, thundering humidity.
The roar echoes the jungle, the people hustling to sell you something, religion, the circus, let's talk about their stories, experiences, humanity, let's chat about the sports news, my favorite dines, your children, mine, clash of the cymbals, let us lecture ideas, let us sing! have a beer, scream, talk just to talk about noise, insanity --
but, when it comes to me, about me-- is what the therapist gets paid to know and it all empties down a black hole.
...There's a lot of grief tucked inside the bones, the pain, and no wonder they creak and they ache,
when "Quiet" becomes a refrain. All the people, mothers, friends, lovers, begging for you to explain. "Don't be so quiet." "Why so quiet?"
The word in their mouths, I never liked it - so menacing a lion's maw as the roar begins, the cold in the throat, judgment as the teeth snaps shut, q,u,i,e,t on their lips synonymous with the empty, silence of not even mattering.
Nothing for them to react to, so they assume nothing inside.
But I can sit upon a clearing in the jungle and listen to the earth's quiet, and never notice it spinning thousands miles fast. Never notice the quakes killing millions in Mexico. Quiet before it struck. And the lion's maw stretches a child's height in the quiet trenches between teeth and tongue.
Quiet is a dictator. It likes to listen before it pounces. because Quiet has been their worst self. Quiet likes to see itself in them who boast, in them who insist in mattering. Quiet likes to become what they are showing. Quiet has been their failure. Quiet likes to swallow whole their words freed from their mouths, and trapped inside a mind, a belly, or ribs of cages. Quiet is not picky.
Quiet is a heavy duty control of breath. It is like nothing and holds in it everything. And when quiet loses itself, the world spills the lion's roar thunders across the valley now and you hear it, and it trembles inside your heart now and you fear it, death is calling for you and you know it- earthquakes all across the expanse of the earth.
I give the therapist my name- I speak to her something to say about myself.
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