nostalgia sticks to the roof of my mouth

my tongue excitedly flaps around chapped lips

sounds of whirring printers and cackling staplers

ring in my ears, i tap my fingers on the desk-

half-chewed fingernails on moth-eaten wood,

unhinged tubelights flicker above

and i wander off to dusty memories

of when i was made of milk-toothed youth

and phosphorus, coiled like a fetus in

porcelain bathtubs filled to the brim

with lukewarm water.

/

stuffy car rides in summers/ sticky fingers/

made of saccharine and/ honey flavoured toffees/

the sun glinted/ through hardened glass windows/

leather seats/ that burned their souls/

plastic waterbottles/ that sang in their watery voices/

air conditioners/ spewed out icy air/

bryan adams/ bled out of the broken radio/

beads of sweat/ crawled through father’s eyebrows/

i wiped my forehead/ with the back of my hand/

moved my tongue gently/ across the rough surface/

of sharp-edged rock candies/ bobbed my head to soft rock/

and it sat there/ hidden beneath seat covers/

packed under bottlenecks/ muffled by lip-syncing lips/

heartbreak/ fleeting childhood/

/

i swiftly move my fingers through reams of paper,

licking the pale fingertips that taste like starch and death.

my mouth dry like sawdust.

i light up a cigarette,

melancholy madness rises up with heavy,

tobacco-laden smoke.

she enters my ribs.

armed with the ghosts of my childhood,

sweeping gently my diaphgram,

sweet death.

she gnaws at my liver, my right lung,

breaks it into swallowable cubes-

death is a woman, always.

/

the air was thick/ with jealousy/

yellow coloured/ school buses/

staggering up slowly to the hills/ to remote cottages/

on overpriced school trips/

the seats were torn at the edges/ they spat out yellow foam/

overweight children/ shuffled out of the metal doors/

stretching their arms/ plastic wrappers crunched under their feet/

we slept in warm camps/ in groups of four/

there was something sad/ about the way she had smiled/

i had loved her then/

the chemical taste of sandwiches/ burned through the air/

warm tomatoes and soggy bread/ mixed with amylase/

naked bodies floated around/ in chlorine-rich pools/

i wanted to drown/

and once again/

beneath piles of woolen clothes/

masked under the smell of tomatoes and chlorine/

there it was/ heartbreak/

i cried myself to sleep/ that night/

no one left school trips/ unscathed/

/

the night is young,

i make my way slowly to the subway,

soft fog looks pretty under

purple neon city lights.

i rub my palms together-

it’s cold outside.

it’s cold inside.

i rub i rub i

rub.

/

sickly smell of soft drinks/ swept through the air/

happy birthday/ the banner said in a happy font/

he blew the striped candles/ drops of saliva/

stuck to the frosting/ it was vanilla/

his mother/ plucked out the candles/

remnants of cake clung themselves/ to the wax/

i would lick them off/ later/

the walls faded/ to a pale yellow/

chairs screeched/ afraid of being dragged around/

i wore a checkered shirt/ red and blue/

wiped my wet hands/ on the soft fabric/

we were served/ cold noodles and warm cake/

i had gulped down the carbohydrates/ shamelessly/

fat thighs burned/ filled to the brim with lactic acid/

the air was moist/ something loomed over us/

mingling with the humidity/ something hideous/

/

i switch on the lights.

the room glows up in yellow illumination,

i wipe my moist eyes with the back of my sleeve-

i have left something behind,

and replaced it with the grief

of unborn memories.

and once again

i sleep through dimesions

and wake up in vibrant thoughts-

i had always hated the dark.

and once again i was floating

through/ faint yellow birthday-walls/

red wax candles/ i loved to lick/

through yellow school buses/ with the pain peeling off of them/

through old pages/ of worn out leather diaries/

through muddy playgrounds/ in monsoons/

falling off bicycles/ on hard concrete roads/

through broken toes/ that bled so crimson/

through cracked lips/ and torn tongues/

the lips had bled/ and i had sucked on them/

i had loved the sicksweet taste/ that reminded me of home/

and yes/

this is home/ this is home/ this is

home/

An artist is always in pain.

Mattress, dull butter knife blade.

God, 

the things that happened to me

shouldn’t happen to anyone—

The inconvenience 

of adoration—

Do I want to lay forever?

Sleep forever,

watch time condense into a single point,

stutter like I used to, 

do my best to scrub myself clean

                          in every place my old self touched

my newly reborn body. 

                           I want to fold my skin

like a paper napkin. Crumple myself

around a single point, a spill of color. Bleed.

I am an artist; therefore I am in pain.

I am in pain; therefore I am an artist.

January 1.  

         The woman in here with me is putting on lipstick. I remember when she did that, knowing I was watching her from the bed, still half asleep, how she’d mouth her name exaggeratedly in the mirror when she finished with the coat, Ra-mo-na, usually red lips, but sometimes plum or pink. 

         At first I was convinced I would never love anyone or be loved again. It was all or nothing, life or death, her or no one. I think I’m moving on. Because she doesn’t seem real now, not as something I could touch or talk to. More the kind of dream you miss when you wake up. But I still think about her all the time.

         The stranger has finished with her lipstick now, she’s searching through her bag for something. A pack of cigarettes. Mostly empty. There’s no smoking allowed in the complex, but it isn’t my business. I notice a large birthmark below her eye, still visible through caked-on foundation. She pulls out a lighter, takes two cigarettes from the pack, sticks one in her mouth. Offers the other one to me with a mild half smile— “You look like a smoker,” she says, without any trace of a question in her voice. I take it between my middle and index fingers like they do in movies. Thank her. She nods in return as the doors open and gets out. Her heels make no sound on the carpeted hallway.

         I’ve only smoked twice in my life and both times found it unbearably disgusting. The first time was with Ramona, she was- is- a chainsmoker and I asked if I could try. We were sitting on the living room floor half-clothed, having started to get dressed and each stopped for different reasons, her to light a cigarette, me because I so enjoyed looking at her bare back in the dim lamplight and while watching her felt such a surge of something that could have been adoration or lust that I had to sit down to steady myself.      

         I tried not to cough afterward. It didn’t work. She just laughed and patted me on the head like I was a little boy and said, “God, you’re so unspoiled. It’s adorable.” And I was going to retaliate by saying how we’d had sex not ten minutes ago, so I wasn’t completely innocent, but she blew smoke rings into my face and they stung my eyes and I didn’t think in words anymore.

         The second time was just after she left me and I was trying to remember her, or maybe become her. 

         I’m not going to try to smoke this one, I decide, I’m going to throw it away. I shouldn’t have it. The elevator doors open. Ground floor.

January 2.

         Did I remember to buy butter? Fuck. I think I forgot. Typical. Now I’ll have to go back later; I promised Eli we’d make cookies tonight and he’s been looking forward to it all week so I can’t disappoint him.

         This time in the elevator he hasn’t pressed any of the buttons except the one for our floor. That’s progress. I should tell him I’m proud of him but it might come out sounding mad because I’m annoyed about the butter. Not like it’s that hard to go to the store, I’m a grown woman, I can handle the drive, it just isn’t convenient and could easily have been avoided if I’d actually bothered to look at the shopping list.

         Some lady gets on. She coos at Eli and surprisingly it gets a little smile out of me. I hear him ask her what ‘that is’ on her face. A birthmark. Oh go, this is humiliating. She’ll think I’m a terrible parent who doesn’t teach respect. But she just giggles a bit. I guess she’s willing to forgive him because he’s young so he doesn’t know any better. I wish I could get out of anger’s way that easily. I lean over to her and say, “Sorry, he hasn’t learned manners yet.” The doors open to my floor. 

         Eli begins jumping, excitedly chirping, “Mommy! We’re making cookies!” over and over again. Fuck, I really don’t want to go back to the store. Maybe there's a recipe for chocolate chip cookies without butter that I can find?

January 3.

         I don’t know what I can say to her now. Somehow I didn’t imagine this part about life existed, this part of getting old, getting cancer, hating my walker and my hobbling steps, writing a will in complete seriousness, bidding farewell to my only daughter, to my husband, even older but somehow healthier than me. I see the mother clinging to her son’s hand as tightly as he is clutching hers, and I think someday she is going to say goodbye to him forever. Right now, though, he is young, innocent, one hand holding his mother’s and the other smeared with crumbs from the cookie shoved halfway into his mouth.

         When I was younger, I imagined the stinging loss of relationships. Boyfriends appeared and disintegrated, blew away with the wind, and I cried for a few days but I knew it was a fact of life. I knew my parents would die eventually, because they were old, like I am now. Dying is what old people do. It’s their new job, after retiring: preparing for death. I just didn’t think about how it would be for me. 

         I used to be a poet. Now my lungs are rotting from the inside. I could have used that as a metaphor in a poem, my younger self would’ve liked it. 

         After I told my daughter I don't want to be cremated, I said not to worry, I only wanted her prepared for when the time came for me to step off. This seemed to comfort her a little. I was glad for that. I’m too slow walking to leave the elevator; the doors start closing and I have to wave my hands around to get them to open again. I’m struck by the sight of my wrinkled hands. They belong to disease, not to me anymore. Shaky with age.

         Such a nice world it is. Maybe they’ll make some technology before I die, upload my brain onto a hard drive so I can talk to my daughter, talk to my grandkids. Yes, that would be nice.

January 4.

         it’s so cold did they not turn the heater on this morning even the walls are cold this fucking lady with a big spot next to her nose said happy holidays like I care the holidays are over already she needs to stop smiling at me I hate when people are happy now there’s some other guy here there’s too many people on this elevator I’m claustrophobic it isn’t a very big elevator they’re talking why are they talking today is too miserable to talk god I’m so hungover my head hurts their voices are too loud why am I being so mean I’m usually a nice person I mean not unusually nice but a normal amount of nice this guy sounds fucking sad he should go see a psychiatrist or something his tone just screams depression what are they even talking about I should probably leave my girlfriend so why am I going to see her what the hell can I say I’m such a shitty person she’ll never forgive me how can I say I love her when I do shit like this I act like an asshole maybe I can write her a poem or something she might like that I know saying the drugs turn me into someone else isn’t true she thinks I should go to rehab and just get it over with already but I’m scared this is her floor last chance to turn back shit what if she isn’t there too late if she’s gone I’ll wait outside this time I’ll prove it

January 5.

         It’s been too long; my hands are shaking. No, my whole body is shaking. He didn’t leave it like he said he would. I left out the money and everything. When ten a.m. came was the breaking point. The clock made a sickening reaching-the-hour sound and I bent in half at the waist to puke. It was mostly stomach acid since I hadn’t eaten anything this morning, and now since I’ve hurled I’m going to shoot up on a completely empty stomach and that’s killed some people before but hell, if I die then I die and all my money gets donated to somewhere it’ll actually do good to the world.

         The lights are too loud in here. And the other man’s breathing is hurting my head. There’s some construction noise from outside. I pull out my phone even though the light hurts my eyes and send him another message. The elevator stops and I’m alone in the metal box so I leave a voicemail. Where the fuck is he? I’m fucking desperate. Everything hurts and I’m shivering like I’m having a seizure and I don’t want to throw up again. I’m not asking for that much— I don’t want to be stuck in my mind any longer, I need it to ease up. 

         The shifting of the ground feels bad. Because it’s going down. I’m sinking to the ground floor, sinking through the floor, the doors are opening now, come on, get up. Somewhere between the second and third floor I sat down and threw up again. If I get out fast no one will know it was me. 

         My phone makes a sound. He says he’s here outside on the corner of Orange and Helena. I can get there. I can get there. I grab the railing and stand up before the doors close. Then stick my hand out. It’s shaking. The doors are closed. Someone’s gotten in and they’re talking to me. They’re taking out their phone and dialing. I’m dizzy and I sit down while they try to talk to talk to me. My skin is all sweaty. It doesn’t feel good. I just need another dose and I’ll be ok. 

         After some time I hear a siren and it clicks- that’s for me. 

         I try to run but the floor is going down again and a man’s arms are holding me back and he’s shining a light in my eyes, taking me away.

January 6.

    I wipe my nose with my sleeve. It leaves a streak of blood. That makes me feel good because it means I’m tough enough to be the kind of man who gets in a fight. In their own unique way the punches felt good. They proved me to myself. 

         I kind of know that he didn’t deserve it but men like that have it coming. You can’t just be an asshole all the time, someway or other karma is going to pay you back. I don’t want to get into the hippy-dippy kind of bullshit, but I believe in fate. Not like that sugar-sweet ‘these two were destined to fall in love’ but like action as a result of action. I think if I looked really close at the universe I’d be able to see it. 

         That coward can’t swagger around with his drooping jeans and pristine white shoes and expect to get through the week without a punch in the face. He can’t spit at other people and not get that back.

         Fuck. By that logic I’m out to have payback too. Because I hit that dickhead harder than he hit me. A drop of blood drips out of my nose and lands on the elevator tile. I think that’s going to be me if I don’t make up for it. I wipe the blood away with my shoe and it leaves a little brown smudge. 

         How many good things make up for a bad thing? I wish I could ask someone that. 

         My shoulder aches. I like that pain. I must be strong, to have done that. I should do bad shit, I should join a gang and do cocaine and fuck a different girl every night. I think I will. Then no one will be able to say I didn’t fight hard. 

         Someone walks in. He eyes me like he’s intimidated. He asked if I heard about the guy in the elevator the other day. I haven’t. I roll my eyes and he looks worried. He says nevermind but keeps talking anyway. Says some dude passed out in here the other day, got sent off to rehab. Like I care.

January 7.

         The man in the elevator asks if I’m moving. He has an accent but I’m not good with accents, I don’t know where it’s from.

         Yes, moving in.

         He says, I thought I saw you here last week? You gave me a cigarette?

         I think. I remember. Yes that was me, I was coming to take another look at the place— deciding where to put the furniture. I nod in the direction of the chair, wrapped up in plastic.

         What look are you going for?

         I look at my T-shirt. It has a picture of a tiger on it. You mean my shirt? I got it at the zoo. 

         He blushes. It’s kind of cute, in a kicked puppy kind of way. He says, no I mean with your furnishing. Like antique, modern, mid century modern, you know?

         Oh, oh yeah. Haha. Sorry, of course that’s what you meant. I like a lot of different stuff. Dull colors mostly, like dusty reds and browns, earth tones. I think they’re atmospheric.

         That sounds nice. Well, good luck— this is my floor. 

         I look at the number. Oh hey it’s mine too.

         He smiles a little and I notice he has a sad looking face. Or maybe just very deeply contemplative. One of those people that’s made of poetry. Or something. He says, well then we’re neighbors. Or at least in the same hallway. 

         I put out my hand. Hi, neighbor. I’m Frankie. Yes it’s a girl’s name.

         Rothko, he says. Embarrassing name I know. My parents thought it was impressive.

         No it’s a cool name. I once read a book about someone named Rothko. He died at the end though.

         Happens to the best of us.

         Yep. Well, see you around, neighbor.

         Good night.

         Night.

first of all, this is only for the wtw folks, so prosers feel free to ignore this. Now, most of you have read anoushka’s post on how she was removed for making the catlover101 account and ‘cyberbullying’. welp, as it turns out, the admins do not have a good sense of humour.

i was also involved in the catlover incident. and i have been thrown out too. i tagged some people to make sure that it had happened, and it had. so might as well come clean.

anoushka told me about it and i loved the idea, so i reached the comment section and told her how the verses she had in her message to readers were my favourite. and that i love satire. that's it. they labelled it as cyberbullying and removed me. now honestly, i had it coming. and most of you know it. coincidentally, i had decided to post 'crumbling faith/matthew' on the same day and was completely prepared to be removed for it. however, the reason was something else. the point is, i knew i was about to be expelled that day. i expected. although the reason does irk me, and the fact that they removed anoushka's account is outrageous. so anyway, that was it, rant over. i am okay with the account being disabled, though it would've been great if they had left the pfp on. i loved the pfp. i will still be on prose and instagram, so you can find me there. for those of you who were confised about the incident, this was it. thank you everyone, y'all have been a great joy to work with. and i still can't believe i reached a hundred followers there.

if we move to vermont

i wonder if some other girl might choose my bedroom because it's

blue

blue the color of the ocean.

might as well dye the carpet if it means the house won't sell, and you know

my blue hair didn't fix me.

girls here ignored it anyway--they don't wear their collars up.

they don't dress in darks but they gob on mascara and pull their buns so tight

you don't have to wonder where open mindedness went.

it's in there cinching somewhere.

their hair is blond and brown and red and light, even though it's not sometimes

and belonging is a construct but they've got it constructed as an add on to their homes.

but if i move to vermont, i'll have to box up the black shirts and the pink in the same box

i'll have to use the dye or leave it for some other girl who wants to drown in

blue

blue the color of the ocean

blue the color we paint the chesapeake bay over

brown the color we see the chesapeake bay as

they'll never see me get into college,

raise my longest finger at graduation and i'll splatter my cap and gown with

blue

i'll never ever be changed

i'll never ever be kissed

i'll never ever belong in one place

and if i move to vermont with my faded blue hair i wonder if it'll be easy to forget

the way me and him talked about picking flowers on the water

the way he said my flower was a daisy

if i move to vermont i'll bring him a bouquet on the way out of state,

dye them

blue

(blue the color of the ocean)

dye the water

blue

(blue the color of the ocean)

and if i move to vermont maybe it'll be a second chance to be all alone again.

You see something out of the corner of your eye. It’s a...a bug? A small meaningless ant. You look at it and wonder what to do. It's fate is now in your hands. If you want it dead, you could kill it. Or you could let it go about it’s meaningless useless life.

What a difficult decision. Let it live...or die. You pick. You think about it. It’s not like it’s gonna do anything important! You think. Just another creature that will not benefit me. Its life is so pointless I wouldn’t feel any guilt if I just let it perish. That is as you think.

It’s a bug right? There’s millions of them! No no, billions! I’ve heard that there can be as many bugs in one square mile as there are people on the planet! I’m sure having one less ant in this world won’t be a problem.

Tough...you still can’t decide. It is a living, breathing, organism. Just like you. I’m sure you could show a little mercy. After all, it’s probably gonna die soon anyway. So why cut it's life short?

A thought comes into your head. You see these animals as useless lifeless zombies that grow their population to the millions. You can’t help but wonder...“Isn’t that what people do?”

No no...you think. These bugs are not worth it. All they do is walk around and build piles of dirt! It’s not like they work with technology and do more important stuff.

But then again...the poor thing may not impact anyone in any way with its existence, but still, it’s alive. Let it live as long as its body can last it. It’s life will soon end anyways, so why make its life shorter?

You go along and leave the ant to its business. Because...in the end, we are all just animals doing what we are instinctively born to do. Even if it’s very useless.

in the kitchen

sits a

shattered

photograph

of a little girl

with a

watermelon juice

smile

i study the

fresh history

encased in

fissured fractals

of frame,

cracked and

clinging for

dear life,

until a

single taps sets

the photo

free, falling...

in the sink

lies a

sopping

memory

peering upward

at me, its

broken-hearted

beholder

bearing a

tear-streaked

frown

Rain. It poured through every crevice of her torn windcheater and permeated her very soul. had always been a wanderer, a daydreamer much like the geniuses of the past, where they beheld formulae, intangible, just out of grasp of the layman’s weary eye. She was never conventional, not a genius in the perfect sense of the word, but one that is evil, a necromancer perhaps. A diamond in the rough.

Her youth is something that she has treasured. For those who saw her- sun tanned deeply brown skin, jet black hair that reflected off of the sun’s crimson rays, forming countless prisms of shades expanding, growing far beyond the rainbows that hide legends, tomes of gold. Her eyes? Almond-shaped, streaked cerulean and violet, never had anything like it been seen before. The things we love never last, and her fading beauty was proof of it. She had come there to seek out a remedy, down a quaint country lane, out of a children’s book almost.

“What do you seek, child, and do you think this is where you shall find it?” a man’s voice rang out through the gathered oak trees, lilting and swaying like the wind. He emerged from a nearby bench and walked towards it, his calloused palm extended. “The Fountain Of Youth, at long last. Oh, I won’t be long sir.”, she wondered aloud. He muttered something incomprehensible then, and beckoned her to approach it.

The fountain was simple, unassuming, really, but no Trevi or Flora could ever match its excellence. The only decoration was a carving ‘levis est puer dominae suae’. The Latin she had heard, whispered from alleyways and the friends that had long slipped through her fingers escaped her then. She could only have faith, as she stepped forward for a drink from its freezing waters, not in scripture any longer but in what object lay before her.

She is awoken by the steady drip of rainwater, yet again. But not a torrent, reminiscent of tempests she is thankful to evade, but a drizzle. A haggard woman lies before her, her back strewn across the cave’s floor, a cripple. There was a glint in her almond-shaped eyes, however, vaguely, almost hauntingly familiar. A gentle, croaky voice erupts into the shadows “R-Run, while you can. RUN” and the glint disappears, a gentle glow replaces moves , ignited by the urgency in her voice, but she is stopped short by another voice, the man. He was back. “Youth is a flighty mistress, child.” Suddenly, it comes flooding back, as the man’s laughter rings out through the tepid air and memories rewind in her head- this was what was carved on the fountain. That was the last thing she remembered, as she felt her worn knees buckle to the cold, hard ground. She does not remember an echo.

i wanted to be your student director;

your leading lady, standing tall and thin in the shadows of a spotlit stage, 

the one to watch the cast while you run out for tacos, the one to introduce you as the director before the show,

simultaneously idolized and loathed. 

now i write about floating down rivers in venice and dye my hair blue in a tiny bathroom mirror.

i could write my own movie and make myself a star, but i wanted to see your head nod from the side of the stage like peppermint sticks in july.

cool and swift, loud and slow.

loud and slow.

attention is, if any dream, a bad one.

quarantine spared me, i didn’t want to be your cow. 

i don’t want to be your cow, not then or ever. i don’t want to make people laugh, i don’t care if it had the most lines, i don’t like the way the lights feel on my face anymore. i don’t like the way strangers come up to me and tell me i did good, i don’t like any part of it and realizing that brought me into focus.

my senior year is not this year but the next

and am i scared? maybe.

quarantine spared you, too.

would i have walked off the stage if the show went on? maybe.

but i wonder if knowing that hurts more than knowing your show was never a show. or is it good i never had the chance, then?

take it in stride, dear, like peppermint sticks in july.

cool and swift, 

loud and slow.

loud and slow.

my fingers ache to cradle your hair once more

and winter your body with my fears,

a cold claw at your throat, love, i long

to etch my disparaging words into your neck

like the time i smothered you with tattoos and flowers

and kisses on your head,

to hold you and sculpt your sorrows,

to fall asleep and in love

upon the hollow of your chest, and smile in my sleep

because you are mine. whole and true.

and it aches to have you sheared off my skin like this,

it aches to see you cry,

a bleating brevity that i know

time will heal and seal. soon, you will

rust away and my lungs will forgive

everything that has been inflicted upon it.

but for now you dawdle and digress,

and i keep writing these poems in the dark.