a place for fiction and poetry
You are the harsh light of the sun
broken by prisms,
cascading into a thousand fractured rainbows
across my soul.
You illuminate all that I am
in the soft glow of translucent color.
Could I stand to search the deepest
shadows of my heart without that loving glow?
No!
And so,
Alight on me with you dream like love.
Show me all that I am, in your eyes.
And, perhaps, I will see myself as you do,
and be happy.
it’s like sweat dripping
no
pouring
drowning you
like ocean waves
in the very hottest moments of summer
you.
feel.
every.
second.
like clocks ticking
every clock ticking
amilliontickingclocks.
amilliontickingclockssurroundingyouspinningallaroundyou
ticktickticking
your face feels hot-
from the sweating?
NO
that can’t be right
you’re shaking
you’re freezing cold
why are you so cold?
it’s so hot
you’re sweating
no
you must be cold
you’re shaking
you must be cold
your heart is choking the breath from your throat
it beats off time from the ticking clocks
somehow
that’s worse
your mind doesn’t know what to listen too
but
someone punched you in the stomach
you’re heaving
but the vomit
can’t.
make it.
past.
your heart.
so you lay on the floor
your burning face against the cool flat surface
the world tilting
while you shake from cold
your heart beating so fast
and so hard
you feel like you’re dying
you must be dying
your stomach heaves against your protesting body
this is what dying feels like
you must be dying
you can’t breathe your gasping against your hulking misplaced heart while the darkness closes in starting from your peripherals and fading to the center
you gasp
and heave
and clutch your sides
on the cool floor
your face hot
sweating
your body shaking cold
Dear, sweet, Heart,
I see you there,
staring from behind that thick curtain,
behind that bullet proof window,
in that house of brick and steal you built around yourself.
Dear, sweet, Heart,
please, just go to the door,
open the top latch,
and then the chain,
and the dead bolt,
and the second dead bolt,
on the steal door you’re barricaded behind.
Dear, sweet, Heart,
open that door to me.
Let a small crack of light fall against you,
feel just the tiniest breeze of my love.
Dear, sweet, Heart,
open that door to me.
The further you travel from downtown
the more interesting the shops you’ll find.
But this should come as no surprise,
the measure of wealth falls with the skyline.
The rent is lower there.
As you travel, don’t worry;
if you ignore the homeless,
while they talk to themselves,
pressed against tall building sides,
they’ll start to blend in.
And a curious thing will happen;
you’ll lose your humanity (not them).
In this part of town, you’ll notice
there’s a stronger smell of weed.
We all escape how we can.
I’m sure, in the tall glass towers,
with their stirring views,
and unknowable privilege,
the rich escape their gilded prisons too;
the scent of freedom as high as they.
Does the whole world live this way?
anxiety;
deep, roiling inside me
below the diaphragm
triggered by the slightest
make believe
fear;
a word,
a phrase,
pretend occurrences on the television.
Days and weeks
and months
of healing pass.
I am alright;
on the other side of mercy.
and then
anxiety;
deep, roiling inside me
below the diaphragm