midnight valkyrie

Dear Val,

I get that you’re not a diamond. You’re not super pretty or super coveted. You’re not super tough. You’re not worth a lot of money… but you’re more than that. You’re like a novel that can be read over and over and over again and every time you read it, you discover more things that make you love it even more. You have depth and you’re not transparent or shallow. You’re comfortable and you provide love rather than beauty.

-Jen

I fell in love with a girl today

I fell in love with a girl today;
a girl with stardust in her eyes
and constellations in her freckles.

I fell in love with a girl today;
she was tall and slender,
poised with grace and elegance
unlike my skinny lankiness,
all clumsiness and awkwardness.

I fell in love with a girl today;
I knew I would never look into a mirror
and see her reflected back to me.

I fell in love with a girl today;
with secrets tucked behind her ears,
and laughter like wind chimes,
her every breath exhaling dreams
into the chill morning air.

I fell in love with a girl today;
but I did not desire to be with her,
I wanted to be her.

How do you get rid of the demons?

Do you ignore them?
The memories
the anguished cries
and the fearscape
of nightmares and
daydreams.

Do you fight back?
With words as knives
screams with edges sharp
razors and blades glinting
in the moonlight
shredding the silence
slashing at the empty air.

Do you run away?
Push past exhaustion
and the point of no return
dull weights on your eyes
drained - with your mind
caught swirling around and
around and around…
until you fall into the abyss.

Do you say hello?

Darling,
how many times 
did you howl in the night,
waiting for a pause 
in the eternal rain?

Darling,
how many times
did the sun rise, 
stretching its arms
across the horizon,
chasing you
into the darkness?

Darling,
how many times
did the ghost hands
curl around your ankles
and snatch away
your warmth?

Darling,
how many times
did you call out for me
into the silence
into the darkness
only for your echoes
to answer back?

How are you?
Good, I say
as an automatic response
because that’s what adults always said,
clipping on the question after Hello,
rarely ever catching your answer as they move on
as if it were a statement more than a question of concern.

How are you?
Good, I say
even though everything is but;
concealing the darkness with artificial light;
because if you say something other or act differently than
Good with a convincing smile and slight nod
what would unravel would take too much effort
or worse yet, the other person wouldn’t care.

How are you?
Good, I say
cringing at how exposed I am
in these daily social interactions,
conversations which should be smooth; natural,
but start with my stuttering, my mumbling, 
and ending with my incoherence and regret.

How are you?
Good, I say
because I hope I am.

With warmer winds
glides in spring time
and spring cleaning:

sweeping out the cold
with the collected dust
and tendrils shrunk back
in darkened corners.

throwing back heavy
curtains, yawning from
hibernation, allowing
sunlight to stream in.

sorting through clothes
bringing back forward
dresses, with flowers
curling in at the hem.

tucking away secrets
with winter bed sheets
and pushing sleep
deeper into the night.

The Memory of You Lingers

Sometimes I find wisps of smoke
where your head was once
resting on my left shoulder,
clinging onto the fabric
of my favourite blue sweater.

Sometimes I find ashes sprinkled
on the welcome mat of my front door,
the remainder of a love
that had burned so strong
that it eventually consumed itself.

I have recently fallen in love
with the scratchings of a pencil -
the rough resistance against paper
lead along smooth arches and dipped curves
and wavering lines drawn out like a quiet sigh.

My soul hides
In these pages and the words
They tell tales
Of where my heart resides
Read between the lines
Beyond the curves
Beyond these pages.

Because, from empty spaces
and virgin paper -
milky white, like moonlit stone -
a mark transforms these collected stories
and vague, fanciful ideas
into flourishing characters
and a whirlwind of worlds
to touch and be touched by.

Michelangelo believed that statues
Are not made from scratch, rather exposed;
Chiselled out of their rough-marble cell
How many stories, do you think
Could be trapped inside a sharpened point?


Original post is here.
This was an open collaboration with wordswritteninsilence (second stanza) and a-lesson-in-fragility (fourth stanza), with my words in the first and third stanza.

We’re dying as the oxygen thins out. Our breaths become wheezes, as if we are old men and women being suffocated by Death’s vice grip, struggling to continue living. The emptiness finds it easier to cling onto our lungs and the pounding of war thumps in our ears. We must strain to hear and squint to see, yet everything seems too painstakingly close, too painstakingly real when we are so near to becoming obsolete. There is a dizziness that spins our vision and a faint voice that calls from our earpiece: Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.

But we cannot.

So we let go.