dichotomous nothing
the air bleeds
honey cough syrup
stirred by a Southern wind
winding ribbons around the soul
symphonies around suffering
boxed up in pairs
sweet like pears
the taste of bitters on my tongue
lick the surface of starving minds
tired bones buried
deep
in the earth
dormant dead and dusted
dreaming of something better
than sallow skin
bone marrow chipping in
to make days of dichotomous nothing
will there ever be something
Content Warning: Mentions of suicide, abusive relationships
I’ll meet you there
I’ll climb down to hell
with its flat plains and dry heat
to reach you
not to save you
but to die there with you
I’ll swallow what I’m drowning in
and find you at the bottom
a swollen face
apart from vitality
I’ll fill a bathtub to the lip
feed the wire three feet
into the socket
on the other side
of bubbles and brutal force
track my end in beats of five
on the railroad
until the engine begs
and I spill open
on the grass
I’ll kick my feet
to tighten the rope
a necklace just for you
a party favor
that never loosens
I’ll host the funeral service
an open casket
for all to see
a blackened pit
and the soul
you never took from me
hello arts ink. I have taken over…this is my first post ever….watch out….
my comic is about things i find on the ground on campus bc i always feel sad bc they’re left behind.
pic of smashed ted the bear below…
Hummingbird
what must it be like to know someone?
not their favorite color or where they went to high school or where they want to retire or how they like their scrambled eggs on any given Sunday
but the texture of their skin
the patterns on their fingertips
born in the womb of their mother
the webbing and weaving
are they high-strung or laid back?
with skin that sags around soft eyes
and peach fuzz
molded lips that taste of
dark-roasted coffee
and the beating in their chest like a hummingbird
when I press my ribs against theirs, my hip bone against theirs
we make a sculpture that breathes and pours
with sweat and some saccharine
pleasure in the moment
a pulsing and pressure
the roughness of legs
shaved two days ago
the bowing of their side and the curve of their arms
bracing and borrowing glances
eyes closed, mouth wide
taking honeysuckle and morning dew
speaking only of cardamom and chamomile
whispering of rapture
to be enchanted in a body
to feel, to know
The Archway
my great-grandmother had a house
she’s gone
but the house breathes
its strange breaths
strange faces
strange furniture
strange footsteps
imprinted by foreign feet
I remember the house
and it’s frightening to think that someday I won’t
that nobody will
that the memory will die with me
you’re getting so tall
she said before we left
beneath the archway in her living room
neither she nor I will ever stand beneath it
again, I am frightened that the memories
won’t be memories anymore
not that they will be conflagration-charred
cataclysmically-consumed
made holed and holy by a marksman’s arsenal
but that they will dry up and fade
wet footprints on concrete
during the fourth of July
when the weather was warm as the parade marched by
I sat inside a home I might never see
again, I am frightened
that anyone and everything is only mine
for a little while
that life is only for a little while
There’s always a pull between a pencil and surface that you just can’t stop. I’ve been calling a lot of people recently and I’ve always noticed my need to fidget or be active when I’m on the phone. 9 times out of 10 I have some paper and a pencil or pen next to me and somehow my hand finds its way to drawing doodles and scribbles and then some. My favorite places are those with words and sentences and even whole essays splattered across its walls. From bathroom walls drenched in gossip columns to hidden graffiti under a strategically placed flyer, I love seeing the endless possibilities found in lines on surfaces.
As I’ve been thinking about writing this week, I’ve also been thinking about the beauty of handwriting. I’ve always been victim to those complaining about my handwriting (“Why do you write in cursive?”) while also graced by many a compliments (“You’re handwriting is so graceful!”). I always took these comments at face value and considered my handwriting as weird or abnormal. In my time thinking about writing as marks on a surface, I’ve been able to appreciate the oddities of letters and the uniqueness of one’s approach to these letter forms a lot more. Someone’s writing tells you so much about them, of course, but also how they approach communication. Sharp and quick lines show how emphasis on speed and necessity of no wasted time for that person, whereas thick and heavy curves can show how someone takes their time to leave an impact with their words. The ways we choose to communicate with each other whether it be verbally, physically, or something else entirely represents such a large part of our person. Like I always say, communication is key! The way you decide where and how and why you write connects you not only to those you’re writing for (yourself, a class, a stranger) but it’s a snapshot of that exact moment you chose to lay those lines on a page (or a wall or a board or even a window). As we live in a world where convenience is king, the time it takes to handwrite something says a lot about the way you chose to share with the world. I think we should encourage ourselves and others to write more. After all, the pen is mightier than most things really.
To take into the next week:
Ins: Waking up before dawn, kombucha (always), charcoal, blackberries, overnight oatmeal, productive meetings, mittens, brown sugar, scan beds, surrounding yourself with true friends (always).
Outs: Chapped lips, hair in the drain, glossy paper, scary mechanical noises, less than 7 hours of sleep, letting dry skin get drier, a lack of lamps.
My task for you all: Watch your hands as you write and draw and create. Notice how you grip the pencil, how the swoops of your Gs intersect with the crosses of your Ts. Watch someone else write. Find the wondrous quality of sharp against curve and how the blank space makes it all come together. And do a little bit of vandalism. Because why not?!
