come here. the world is not an ocean

to fight your way through tirelessly.

i think my hands will fit in yours

because this is what hands were made for

if not to hold other hands then to hold

the paintbrush or the pen or the bread.

just as our backs were made not to be

sharp and bulletproof but to shimmer

at the sight of the decadent sunlight.

you do not have to bleed to be alive

but when you do i will clean your wounds.

let us follow the ritual we have done

for hundreds of thousands of years

and that is waking up in the morning

and kissing the blue sky and being alive.

come here and wash up on the sand.

we can have love in the middle of this war

with ourselves. we can lie in this bed and

sleep in the middle of the churning sea.

but please when you wake do not think

of the body like a mission. do not think

of tenderness like a conqueror

with every sword drawn and polished.

the world, your world, is not a battlefield

nor is it, again, an ocean,

nor is it a prairie

full of birds taking flight - as much

as i would like it to be.

there is no cross waiting across the river

there are no crowds waiting to watch you ache.

there are, of course, people waiting to love you.

think of the hands and what they are made for

and the way they refuse to die.

know that in your sleep while you dream of knives

they trace your face still

and they do not draw blood

but rather memorize the fluttering of your eyelids.

this, i think, is the song they sing in church

on the good days.

where the sun becomes its own blessing.

death has a thousand of its own songs

but none of them have made it extraordinary.

i think of a country like a body

and a body like a country. i think of her

destitute, i think of her lonely

i think of her sinking to her knees

when grief floods the land

with that merciless high tide.

suffice it to say that if grief is a god

then i no longer know what to worship.

if the sunlight is a god

however every morning is a prayer.

in summation when all my bones are broken

my knees will be the thing which i fall upon

and when i look up from the cool earth

i want to look upon something good.

in the meantime i think of you, going to every party

in the dress you wish to die in.

i think of you under the moonlight,

white lace like a war flag shivering like a soldier

so that if you were to fall into the swimming pool

and never return you might at least be remembered.

you were glowing, once, but not like this.

you were a radiant thing, but not here.

the silver glint of the sword

is not sunlight, nor is it stars.

you are praying to the wrong god.

to be human is to want to be something else -

god. ocean. bluejay.

empty stadium swelling with the ghosts of applause.

i’m sorry that you’re angry over this.

over all the things you are not all the time.

i’m sorry that you dream of such decadence

all through the night - making monsters

out of men while your hands

make air out of air out of air.

while you dream of biting that silver bullet

and spitting it back out at the world.

because what are you

if you’re not angry? who are you

on the nights where you do not dream of blood?

i will remind you: your hands are not curled into fists

while you sleep. we have been over this.

while i clean your bloody knuckles please

tell me a story and leave out the parts

where you were too cruel to bear.

tell me what is left after the bruises fade.

find a story about love buried in your chest.

are you afraid you will see the sunlight?

so much of it that you cannot turn away?

four years ago i woke up at exactly midnight and wept

over my phone screen.

four years ago i watched a pretty white boy

hold up a sign, 

felt the yelling in the palms of my hands.

four years ago i didn't know who would last longer:

me, or the man on the sign.

four years ago someone lit a fuse;

i hear the hissing, i am still

waiting for the boom

waiting for the boom 

------

a/n: felt some mad anxiety on election night, wrote part of this, forgot about it, found it today and polished it up. i am thankfully less anxious, though whether or not the boom has happened or not is up for interpretation.

stay safe and take care of yourselves, wherever you are. 

i wouldn't call it a "falling out of love";

that implies that i noticed

i was drifting away

i wouldn't call it "burnout" either;

that implies there was a fire, once

burning hot and angry in my chest.

it's more like

"the storm has passed," there is no

static building up in the clouds

anymore. when lightning strikes it

never strikes the ground.

“I don’t wan’ ‘em on my ship,” Solara says. “Just throw ‘em overboard tomorrow morn’ ’n we’ll be done with it, yeah?”

“Maybe we ought to think about it a bit, Cap’n,” Lieutenant Lei answers, leaning against the desk mildly. “It’s why we called everyone prone to making’ good decisions here, ain’t it?”

Tuffy perks up, raising her hand.

Solara frowns. “Aye, everyone important and Tuffy.”

Tuffy lowers her hand.

“Zelle's taken a liking to the jay bird,” Lei fills in. “Even though all they do is sit up on the crow’s nest.”

“Zelle takes a liking to anything with a bit of a scowl and ears to listen to music,” Solara shoots back. She huffs, pulling her feet up onto her desk grumpily. “We’re talkin’ smitten if Jaybird can play a fiddle.”

“I play the fiddle,” Tuffy says.

“Tuffy, one more word out of you…”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Give them a chance,” Aurelie starts, soothing. She puts a hand on Solara’s shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Like you did with me.”

“All due respect, lass,” El breaks in, crossing her arms. “Capitaine took you into the crew ’cause yer pretty, ye sing well, and yer a dang mermaid. The stowaway’s just…a stowaway.”

“Maybe the stowaway can play the fiddle with me,” Tuffy says. Solara reaches towards her sword, and Tuffy backtracks. “A-aye, I meant, no stowaways on our ship, bilge rat.”

Solara sighs, pinching her nose bridge. The navy was already after her and her crew every day, and they were still tracking their bounty. Could they even afford more weight on deck?

“Jaybird could know a thing or two about the treasure map, Captain,” Lei points out, gesturing to the papers strewn about the desk. “They sounded like a dyin’ seal when the water started fill-in’ in, but they don’ look all that naive.”

“And we’re still looking for Cleor’s Chamber,” Aurelie supplies. She absently tucks a lock of Solara’s hair back into place. “Come on, Solara.”

“Uh,” Tuffy says, watching the two of them. “Are we all just, er, okay with this, or…”

“I could use another hand at the cannons, Cap’n,” El backs up, shrugging. “Jai doesn’t look half bad.”

“And if they know something about Cleor, we’re one step closer to our bounty,” Lei finishes.

“Oh, good God,” Solara says, throwing her arms into the air. “Fine. Fine! You’d think we’re nuns takin’ in strays instead of pirates on the Interstellar, blimey. Eugh. Tuffy, go get me a drink.”

“Ha! Excellent joke, Cap’n.”

“Tuffy.”

“Aye aye, right away, ma’am.”

Aurelie smiles, her canines winking like pearls. “To Cleor’s Chamber?”

“To Cleor’s Chamber,” Lei nods, grinning back as she hops off the desk. “And the treasures that lie with it.”

“And the hopefully decent looking men, too,” El sighs.

“And the glory,” Solara says, standing up from her desk. She draws her sword, smiling broadly at her reflection, “that it will bring to our names.”

If a list had to be made of two things that irritated Captain Solara the most, it would be made of two understandable items: easily avoidable issues with her ship, and men. And there were no men in her vicinity as of now, so.

Solara's jaw twitches. "Repeat yourself, Lieutenant."

"Our cabin boy's insisting there's somethin' nasty caught in our nets," Lieutenant Lei supplies. She shifts from foot to foot, sheepish. "Cap'n, I really think it's oughta--"

"If Tuffy got caught in one of the cannons again, I don' wanna hear it. Just tell one of the powder monkeys to get 'er out, yeah?"

"No, Captain," Lieutenant Lei answers, shaking her head. "It's really somethin'. The bos'n thinks ye'll wants to see it."

Solara frowns. The bos'n was hesitant to entertain Tuffy as is, so if they thought it was important...

Solara sighs, fixing the brim of her hat. "Let's head over to 'em, then. Best not be wasting my time, lieutenant."

Lieutenant Lei gives a tight nod. She hoists herself over a wooden ledge, leading them over to where a majority of the crew is gathered on the deck. A net full of...something--it's too covered in bilge and sea filth to really make it out--struggles against the ropes.

A collective murmur rings out through the crew, and Solara's jaw ticks. But that's before she sees it.

Or--sees her.

"What in God's good name," Solara says, hand flying to her sword, "is that?"

Tuffy bounds over to her side, excited. "Dunno, Cap'n, but it certainly ain't God."

"Tuffy."

"Yes, Captain?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, Captain."

"It's got scales," Lieutenant Lei observes, eyes wide in wonder. "Looks like a lass, though?"

Solara makes her way through the crowd. She crouches down, peering through the net, and sure enough, the creature stares back at her with eerie human eyes. It gives a small flail, a pathetic aborted motion like a fish caught above water.

"It talk?" Solara asks, still observing the thing. It was shrouded in gold--gold scales, gold collar.

"Yes, Cap'n," Tuffy supplies, dutiful. She hesitates, clearing her throat. "Says her, uh...says her name is Aurelie."

The creature--Aurelie--stares back at her, eyes narrow and alight with something like...defiance. Solara snorts, drawing her sword. She gives a lopsided smile as the creature flinches at the sight of it.

"Get 'er some clothes, Tuff," Solara says. She tilts her head. "Sit her down in me cabin. I wanna hear this thing squeal."

...but I had to make some bad jokes for the occasion.

...

Being first is not always the best. I mean, can you imagine having as many impeachments as you do ex wives? And just like the ex-wives once did, the majority of the country is longing for a divorce.

Hey, at least we figured it out faster than they did! (Hey, we don't get those hefty divorce stimulus checks?)

Ivana commented to People magazine on the presidential loss, saying, "I just want this whole thing to be over." Later, reporters debated whether or not that was the first time she's made that sort of remark about her ex-husband.

On January 16, 2020, U.S. president Donald J. Trump was impeached for the first time, for abuse of power and obstruction of justice. However, Trump continues to prove that one of anything is never enough for him. On January 13th of this year, just three days until the one year anniversary of his first...it happened again. This time it was as consequence to Trump egging on the domestic terrorists at the Capitol the week prior. His remarks, reminiscent of an over enthusiastic soccer parent's, told rioters that he loved them, and they were very special. The definition of "special" in this statement was never clarified, but it smelled like snowflakes, shiny pickup truck exhaust, and that one CVS in your area where nobody wears a mask.

I wonder if Melania's jealous--after all, that's one heck of a vow renewal.

I wonder if the kids are jealous--after all, their dad didn't care nearly as much during their custody battles!

in this version of the story he is saying something with his hands and he is speaking to your body. in this moment you are the same as you were centuries ago. two lovers reaching for each other and seeing salvation at the other end. the paintings on the cave wall singing your praises in animal blood. in this breath you understand what the poets were writing about and realize you want no part of it. why mar the moment by contorting it into language? by pressing it into something it is not?

your hands grasp at the air and the air responds: i am art enough.

in this version of the tale you disregard an instinct. cast aside the desire to take everything you know and grasp it, trembling, drowning, until it confesses to you its poeticism.

there is glory in his heaving chest before you called it anything at all. before you knew it was a sinking ship, or the lifeboat on the other side of the ship, or the storm crashing against the walls of the ship, which is your room, which is a makeshift heaven.

your body and his body. you don’t want anything more. you don’t want the pen. you don’t want the god hiding in the ceiling guiding his hands.

tell me we’re enough. that in this moment we are the art. that in this moment we are unquantifiable and everywhere and no one can make us into a story. that i am the only one who will ever hear your song and understand.

yes, he says.

dear all going into 2021: this year went about as well as my cousin’s birthday party, which is to say, most things were on fire, and we all collectively got steamrolled by a very large truck.

dear 2020: wow. not to juice the joke, but i think it goes without saying that none of us expected how much of a dumpster fire this year could be. i could list everything that happened here, but we’re all tired of it. so i’ll go into the real contents of this letter.

dear you: you made it. whether you were “”productive”” or not, i don’t care. despite everything, you survived. and that’s a feat in itself. it’d be a lie to say i think everything will change when we go into 2021, but—let’s cut ourselves some slack, yeah? you made it past this year. i am so, so proud of you.

this year, i made new friends, i joined new places, i did x and y and got my heart broken by x and y and learned how to x and y and x and y. i learned to keep friendships that were an equal amount of give and take, and distance myself from ones that were more take than give. i learned to not let myself be a doormat, and that i really like cheese covered tater tots.

but i learned something else.

this year, for 2021: learn how to forgive yourself. please. forgive yourself for not doing the thing you said you would over quarantine. forgive yourself for not keeping in touch with friends as much. forgive yourself for not finishing nanowrimo, or winning that contest, or getting published by that place. forgive yourself for not walking the moon and being as extraordinary as you said you would. and forgive others, maybe, when it’s deserved. 

forgive. despite all else, i think we deserve this.

it’s the new year’s soon. so with that: i wish us all luck. and a little bit of forgiveness.

hopefully, your love,

sunny v.

(https://youtu.be/KkvTYrFIxNM)

how much is too much for the half-open heart? a landslide and a river.

earth and water dreaming of one another and then shoving their love

into a locket, a pictureframe, a snowglobe - you understand.

shrink and then again. stand under the hot water and melt. if you love

like molten gold, will the men love you back? the romantics stand in a line

and wait to walk off the cliff. it’s not our time anymore. lady in a long dress.

man with a sword. defenders of one another. catch the sword and

pull me closer instead. it’s overdone. it’s down and out. we’re through

with the charades and shenanigans. all the lovers that mattered turned into stars.

there’s no space left in the sky for us. you want a love that swells in you

like a newborn god’s first breath. you want the affection to have teeth.

blood and a white dress. blood and a red dress. i’m sorry. i’m sorry, i’m sorry,

i’m sorry, we lost the map to the olden days, we lost sight of the river,

and the landslide swallowed the village whole. what became of the lovers

who stood on the mountain’s edge and watched the earth crumble?

i’m looking at you right now. we’re too late. but i’m looking at you anyway.

″take your hands off your neck and hold on to the ghost of my body /

you know that good lives make bad stories, you can text me /

when punching mattresses gets old.” -- car seat headrest’s sober to death.

hey hey listen to me now / one day we’ll get out of this stupid town / one day we’ll be happy, we’ll know how to breathe, but for now / i keep my car with you, your lungs with me and i / am so, so sad, and / you? what about you? / that sounds about right. we’re two of a kind. / you can call me when you’re not busy / in alleyways picking fights and / i’ll stop smoking every other night but just today let’s / go home. let’s lick wounds with each other and / pretend we’re not sick. pretend we don’t live / wishing tomorrow was another bucket to kick. / but if you hold me and / say we’re not burning? / and i hold you and / say we’re more than damaged goods? / i think that’d be alright. / i think i could make it to the morning. / i think we wouldn’t have to be another / good, predictable story.

(https://youtu.be/Ydv6usKn2rg)