23: Inside My Fantasy
“She’s still 23 inside her fantasy, of how it's supposed to be.” -Taylor Swift
In honor of turning 23 today I’ve decided to piece together some of my favorite my-imagination-got-away-from-me pieces for you. Enjoy!
The Daffodils Made Me Do It Daffodils remind me of the stars Of tossing pennies in a fountain Of blowing out birthday candles Of warmth after freezing all winter Of dancing bare feet in the yard as above me it thunderstorms They mark a new year for me And as I pick them I remind myself of the things that froze my land That didn’t let me grow Daffodils mean vanity but of all the sins, I could use a little more of that As I stare in the water and pick myself apart Like petals from the bud Be impulsive, the flower seems to whisper And it’s everywhere for March Watching me tiptoe around my plans, And dreams, And hopes So, March is for the wishes I’ve harbored all year long After all, the daffodils insist I indulge
“You’re bleeding!” Screams a wrinkled woman, fear across her aged face. Panicked, I inspect myself but there’s no wound staining my clothes red. “No, I’m not.” I laugh but there’s wisdom in her gaze. “You’re bleeding.” She repeats and I can feel it taking place. “My heart.” I whisper as she nods. “You’re still bleeding,” and I see time won’t heal for she is me.
Prometheus Clay Person My heart wasn’t hollowed out It was smoothed and filled and put in the kiln My arteries pumped in so much love For people who left, Who stayed, Who stand in doorways No one told them to pump my heart empty Now it might break Temperature rising I feel the cracks I know their names Flooded by memories of love with nowhere to go I scream A heart isn’t meant to be hard But I am soft clay in a kiln of a world I was meant to have a shell Now it breaks Perhaps I am simply meant to bleed love through the cracks my whole life
Merrily we ponder on the workings of the fates who deigned our eyes, see past our lives, now entangled in the gray.
I walk through the cemetery sometimes Under this old oak I weep over the stone Your memory fades My tears corrode what was once engraved Yet the grief beats against my palms And who will I be once the stone is worn smooth? When I can’t recall your name? When I can’t recognize you as anything outside of this pain? When I weep for a stranger And grieve the life that passed us by Will you then return from your unmarked grave? Or will you simply lay silent in this earth?
I was sitting on the second floor of a double decker train watching Long Island slowly disappear out a window, the fog washing it from sight. With each stop closer to home, I felt myself breathe a little easier. My world had fallen to the shadows that creep up in the Winter. Now the only light getting me by was the train ticket between my fingers pulling me home. Home where the world was just as grey as in my dorm room but at least home was free. The sun had still not risen out my train car window, 4 in the morning flashed across my phone. I could hear the echoes of voices hounding after me each question dripping with mock concern all curious to know if I’m okay. What gave me away? You were witness to my murder yet think I got away? I’d be a fool to stay.
I love reading your writing 💘