Young Writers Society

sometimes all we have is dust and feathers
and its easier to etch ribs into the dirt with our nails
than to plant seeds we cannot be sure will prosper;
the rain has its own path to follow
we are promised nothing

motivation is like pine needles
its evergreen (until its not)
burnt orange crumbling into pencil shaving
peices that dissipate into dust
my favorite book had a person who
became green trying to paint themself black
the ash in their eyes clouded it all
made everything dark

made everything broken
like pine branches dehydrated in a fire
wrap my hands around the coarse bark
and pretend its still burning (twist the bark off
get splinters in my hands)

stick my feet in the ashes
stomp until i find live embers
(or at least cut myself)

if i burn myself alive
im still a phoenix

im still alive
(everything still looks black)

im still alive
i cant stop breathing
in the smoke

im still alive
(this isnt a wild fire
its a world burning)

im still alive
where a world burns
a new one is born

im not a pheonix
im just a crow

a raven is much too noble
(everything is black)

and the splinters in my wings
no longer ache

(they burn)
but im still alive

growing into myself
like a snail (when i know
very well i eat them)

im starting to think
im too twisted to fly

but i know thats the song
birds calling a revolution
(and they are all squawk)

there is something deeply wrong
with preening my feathers until im satisfied
(because no one thinks they are lovely)

maybe im not shiny enough
i will gather more pretty things for my nest
(and barbed wire for the song birds)

i saw myself yesterday and i was scared
i didnt recognize him

his joy
his eyes
his chest
his hips
his waist
his freedom

i tried to crawl back into my cage
i tried to look wrong again
i tried to return to the broken body image
i tried to hate him too

im too terrified
of loving him
because what if
he is only in my head
what if no one else sees him
what if in their eyes
im just a petite doll
with blushed cheeks
and in my eyes im
a thin crow boy
with lovely dark eyes

i think i would rather
pluck all my feathers
and swallow them
than live like that
again

contemplating what it is
that makes me seem
like a person
to other people
its definitely not
the way i am

my eyes well
with unshed tears
with no reason to be there
but no reason not to be
my arms droop with lack of energy
my friends leave knowing nothing
is within me

i am a ressounding chamber
echoing lost melodies
of ages past

and voices i hear in the moment
when the sound is lost

i am lost

i do not exist otherwise

and yet i am still here
after they are gone

corvids always drew me in
something in the way they take offerings
for their companionship

cyclical give and take
bearing shiny new gifts
to be given a peice of walnut

maybe im the peice of walnut
given over to a patron crow or stormy raven,
food for the bond (a sacrifice)

i hear knocking from the washing machine
like things inside of it want out (relatability
comes in odd measures) existence is a knocking
an insistent knocking at several doors at once
a begging (please afford me resources i dont
afford myself) a whisper from behind the door
(no you must afford your own first) but i cant
(but you must) and we do it's damning how it happens
after we are sure it wont (when we lose hope in living
but we are still alive; its a semblance of strength)
this has nothing to do with stones or feathers
(the knocking of the washing machine has stopped)
the knocking in my rib cage continues
(even when it seems no one will answer)
i will answer

i'm only the worst parts of Hermes
winged sandals black from spite
i sell my enemies half truths and abrupt dishonesty
they do not deserve the honor of truth
the honor of olive branches was never offered here
if they want immunity i suggest they bathe in the styx
i hope the water shields their lungs
since breathing the same air as me clearly insulted them
dove wings simply don't sweep down as harshly
corvids carefully choose their friends

i wear a rose quartz necklace for good days
i haven't worn it in a while (perhaps i'm afraid
the magic is gone) i sat it in the windowsill to charge
(maybe i know purifying it will take weeks) the rose
stone is not all the good in the world
it is the deflecting of the bad in most ways
It's a highlight streak in an annotation
(when i wear it i feel as though nothing unloving
can touch me) my own pink force field
i will wear it tomorrow (or this evening I am time blind)
i have no doubt it will serve me well
(i've begun to believe the magic isn't in the stone)
it is and it isn't, the crystal is a channel
and i am a broadcasting station
i should only wear the antennae when
i am comfortable with broadcasting my intent
all of this to say (maybe the stone did not need charging)
i await a good day tomorrow