To Rely, et al

 To Rely


Sour (like your morning breath) alienated (from herself), wrinkled (like the crease on you’re mother’s dress)

Eyes that have lost their wetness (thirsty, lustful)
Lips beyond the cracking-point, a bloody mess (think: genocide, mass-killing)

Fingers twisted (no longer clammy, now cold with indifference)
 Like barbed wire. (the loneliness’ within, the crusade you wage with yourself)

She’s seated, resembling the end of autumn (contemplating whether or not to let it’s last leaves drift away)
She stands upon the chair wooden chair, feeling heroic (like Alexander the Great, she thinks)
Within her mind lies the illusion (she holds the invisible sword, she wears the jeweled crown)


She raises a bruised hand (shaped like a canon)
And, with all the might her body has the ability to gather,
She screams, “I will not die.”

In the background an actress says to an actor,
“You know, Jamie, you truly heart my heart”

The movie catches her attention, “like a fisherman” she thinks

Her wrinkled skin cringes, the sun spots that line her knuckles- all become pale (a pastel, like a sentence you’ve erased)                                                                                      

The words the actress spoke seep through her pores and swim up her body.  

The syllables force (her body that does not want to remember) to remember the Animals of Deceit roaming the pastures of her conscience

The wooden legs of the chair suddenly grow uneasy
The woman refuses to allow herself to influence the fate of the fall (“what is the point?” her subconscious cries)

 (The laws of nature are defied) and she lets herself (move closer to the end, closer to finding out whether or not it was all for nothing)
——————————————————————————————————–

I watch her from the damp corner of her study (drenched in my father’s tears)

They cling onto my skin (the skin I did not create, it suffocates me: I want to scrape it off. Maybe blood can purify the dirt)  

I want to leave the room but my body is comfortable here: on the bamboo floor

I look down and my fingernails are black with grime. I think, “If this is dirty, is clean the man who owns only his blood?”

The light above her head grows lighter
I decide I cannot take it anymore: the old woman will die now, and I too will perish

I do not speak, instead, with my heart inside of my throat, I scream

“My love cannot die!”           

 


Sunny Day Blues

 

Forgiveness is a lie, for the sun can prosper in my swollen angst.

The day is emptier than ever

-Glittering sun, do not hurt me.

 

I am drowning in your false beauty: it eats me, it is eating me.

 

Why do you imply that on your day we must reflect your radiance?

Why is it you that invades the sky when my self is the lowest?

 

Everyone likes feeling as if they mean nothing: it is comforting when you realize that nothing is everything

 You’ve taken the hardest bullet: the pain has left yet the noble scar remains.

It lingers and you feel as if you have accomplished something greater

-Sun, why do you ruin this joy?

 

I try to have faith but I’ve killed many men.

I try to vision my cup as being half full but there is nothing within my cup

It is empty, like the day, like my heart.

 

My throat is dry: I wish he would come bring me water.

Maybe then my thirst would cease and I could learn to sing

 

I Google to comfort myself, I Google you to see if you’ve made anything of yourself

But the sun is blinding me: even though I am away from it, I know it is swaying in the sky, I know its confidence makes you happy.

 

But- he isn’t here: I wander the sunny streets to look for him

If he was here I know the sun would lure him

If he was here I know his mask would sweat and he would be embarrassed

 

But- I liked his sweat: it showed me that he was human, that the human condition prevails

That beyond all of the forged paintings mankind fearfully embraces: biology remains and he is essentially the same

As I am

 

I tape my blinds shut, I dress in black (for it is pure), I write words on my skin in order to feel like there is something inside of me

I write words that I am, I write words that you will later pervert

 

Sun, why do you expect me to shine?

What if I don’t want to shine, what if I like being dark, what if I have become like the rain. What if bringing sorrow lightens the soul I do not own, what if I feed off of your tears

I refuse to pretend that I am eternally grateful for the world and for you.

 

I will not give back for I never chose to be here

The sun may shine, but me, I refuse

 

64th and Madison

 

 The brick skyscraper is not empty: cold, fluorescent lights shine

At twelve AM

To prove to the world it cannot sleep early, for it works hard as it (and others) believes it should.

 

There are no people within the building

It is a Saturday night and the people are trying to find other people

People who they believe they can live out of (parasites searching for hosts)

 

But for once, I am not a person tonight

                        I cannot be a person any longer: I want to be free

 

I am a copper water fountain

Directly in front of the brick building, offering the substance I hold within me: promising the end of what must have felt like an eternal thirst

 

I see the people of the world from here; I see them passing me in their yellow taxi-cabs

Fumbling, sweating, jumping (fixing the strands of cells they call their hair, they call their beauty)

 Whispering what they believe is Truth,

 

I decide I can no longer be blind: vision is vital, vision is truth.

 

So I watch them from my post by the building

            The copper coating is still bright like a sun: I am happy because of this

            When it turns green I don’t think the people will want the water anymore

It will lurk and I will drown in my own self (I will remember your memories as I sleep)

 My act of indifference fails

I try screaming to the people in their taxis, I try my hardest; I try until my throat turns to ash

(The white stones from my inner drive (way) have left because of my screaming. I beg them to stay with me: how can I have a drive-way without stones?)

 

The people do not react

The words will not reach them: I cannot decide if it is I who cannot speak

Or if it is he who cannot hear?

 

Tatiana Dubin
Age 16, Grade 10
Hewitt School
Gold Key

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