bright eyes blinded by belligerent brilliance

holding hope over helpless heathens.

overt steely obstinance obtains ornament,

till tip-toed talkative toddlers tire.

three thought thrilling though,

hands hardly heavier hide children,

suffering sickly silence, solemnly

remembering reconciliation before reverence.

who would want such a weakling,

varnished with vitriolic vinegar and lye,

harping endlessly on forgotten follies,

with wide-eyed weariness swallowing the soul?

oh, are you always so angry my angel -

melting morose memories into stars?

have i heard your hopes in earnest

or scratched the surface of someone's secret?

dreams don't deliberately defy diligence;

they throw themselves through trials.

and if ever I intentionally injure,

know no need negates the negligence.

somewhere, someone speaks such sweetness,

but depth defines decisions - docile and decent.

how could you hear her humming,

if ears only open under abject obedience?

how does yellow come from black?

ground finely till texture melts,

flowing smoothly from the spout...

she washed the skin of the olives,

blessed by thieving nimble hands.

she pulled the pearl from its stomach,

perfect for the bottom of harira.

the thick liquid drowns her bread

kneaded thoroughly by her mother’s hands.

and we ate till sick, gulping bites,

till nothing remained of starchy rolls

or liquid gold.

how does yellow come from black?

as the hunger pangs overtook her,

she looked under each soiled plate

and pile of orange peels and onion skins

but no more olives remained.

so bundled in weathered cloth,

layered on the wealth of generations,

trekked to the grove just over the horizon,

only to find the trees all barren

the grass a sickly shade of gray

with branches snapped clean off

no buds, no leaves, no rich bark.

she came back each day

searching for the green and the black

till her hands wrinkled

like the skin of ripe olives.

but, this tree does not grow olives anymore,

all that remains

are the last few drops in my bottle.

with lit candles lining the window sills

and the lights dimmed, dark orange glow

two chairs separated

by a cold oak table

stretching endlessly father

and only shouts can bridge the gap

delicate petals sprinkled on the floor

crushed by careless footsteps

lead the path to deepening waters

and the candles will be forgotten

till the wicks dwindle to dust

one day escaping their crystal prison

to consume the tight knit fabric we stitched

and waking neck deep in waves

stretching hands and arms for balance

choice lies between flames and currents

or inevitable surrender

I woke up at 4:58, startled from the same nightmare that has plagued my nights since childhood. It was always the same relentless torment. Gazing out the window at the gray sky, I sat up and ran my fingers through the knots in my hair. I had started waking up before my alarm about a month prior and hadn't the heart to break the new habit, despite the exhaustion that colored my mornings. After swinging my legs off the side of the bed, I finally felt the chill of the air my blanket had been warding off. Though I usually loved the cold, that winter had worn down my soul, chipping away piece by piece my resolve. I stepped gingerly onto the hardwood, trying to avoid the inevitable shock on my bare skin, and sauntered over to the wardrobe. In the shadows, I dressed slowly, lightly caressing the embroidery on the dress. It was a blue gown with gold embroidery, beautiful in theory, but I hated it with a passion. In the throes of winter nothing made me sadder than cool colors which only served to reinforce the bleak landscape. I dreamed of a green dress, to match the evergreen trees, or an orange dress, to match my hair. But no, blue was the color they had chosen - blue with tacky gold embroidery. I turned to straighten my skirt in the mirror and the blue gleamed against the gray, while my face was obscured by the darkness. I stepped into the hallway and made my way down the stone stairs. The kitchen was even darker than my room, but I refused to turn on the lights. I began to start a fire for the kettle, when my dress caught the sparks and became engulfed in flames. The orange dress I wanted, I thought. I couldn't feel the heat, but I knew I was dying. For some reason, I was fine with that. I let the fire take me, until I was nothing more than a pile of ash and fragments of bone. And that's when I would wake up, with a queer calmness sinking into me.

mom built her home

just north of the sun,

where the snow falls fast

in star-filled dusk.

her home has rooms

for generations of memory,

with an unfinished basement,

laden with toys.

here in this world

you can stand in the mist

but never get wet.

the droplets evaporate

at the touch of your skin,

and the sun never burns,

only warms,

like an embrace.

and here in the north,

where all my life

is buried

only 3 feet deep,

animals unearth snippets

of a universe

started 20 years late.

and here in the north

all my dreams are nightmares,

waking up

in a cold sweat

at 4 in the morning

to an endless twilight.

and here,

north of the sun,

the snow melts early.

day by day,

we can't breathe

and no one remembers

any different.

I am a painting of the landscape,

covered in magic crystal

bathed in mundanity

I am the rapids of a rushing stream,

crashing against the rocks,

planted firmly in the silt

I am an evergreen tree deep in the forest,

surrounded by orange glow

excluded from the spectacle

I am the biting breeze of early winter,

swirling mercilessly through the grove

echoing whispers of your name

I am a distant memory,

captured by the eyes of those

whose names are carved into my palms

I am the moon at her fullest,

weaving rays of divinity

into an untouchable illusion

I am a painting of the landscape,

melting into your unconscious telepathy,

ever presently calling you home.

I dragged your body

for miles

across rock and sand

to the river of Life,

trying desperately

to make you drink.

I felt your heartbeat

in my ears,

tried to hold the thumps

in my hands,

but blood is slippery,

my fingers frail.

I lie in rest,

beneath the Mulberry Tree,

capturing shade,

soaking you up

to wring my body dry

of your voice

I turn my face

to the Yellow Butterfly,

whose fluttering wings

bring the air

only I

can breathe.

You once told me

I could not

save everyone.

Better,

to watch them drown,

than lease my life

for theirs.

A slow waltz with you,

beneath the constellations.

A cold breeze,

swirling round our ankles

and I’m paralyzed,

while you twirl with the falling leaves.

Smile to light my world,

a full moon,

orange,

then disappear at dawn.

Cover my sky with clouds.

I am orange.

I look in the mirror

and see myself for the first time,

with beauty and grace

with strength and power.

I find myself

obsessed.

Moving with new legs,

sore from sleeping wrong.

I am choppy.

I do not glide like you.

Cold in the morning

and cold at night,

but burn my skin under the daylight.

Do not smile at me

unless orange is all you see.

like the falling leaves

like flowers in spring

like my eyes in the sun

like my hair dyed with henna

like rays gleaming through my window

at sunrise.

I entered through the heavy door; the air was hot - too hot. The chattering of the crowds overwhelmed my head, pounding in time with each step I took towards the room. The smell was revolting and the lights too bright. I could hear the buzzing of every machine. Every table was full, with one chair empty at the end. Standing arm to arm with each body, I pushed my way through the cue, deciding halfway that today was not my day. I left.

Longing for the time before would never disappear in my heart. Before each table had only four chairs, and I cried into the mess that would never reach my mouth. Before I stopped stepping foot through the doors of that room. Before I sat in the back, with the lockers towering over me, and no one noticed I was gone. Could I pretend that before was no different? Could I pretend that I had somehow changed? On second thought, no. The only difference being who, and where, and when.

In the end, the room was the reason. Not the smells, nor the lights, nor the chairs, nor the heat. To blame them was to give an answer to my indescribable pain. The room itself was a large expanse, filled to the brim with everything of which I was afraid. Memories of the table and benches flood back when my feet touch that laminate; an endless expanse, yet I had nothing to say. And I remember the table stretching out on either side of me, empty and vast as the hole I could never quite fill. The hole I now had no desire to fill. It stretches through me even now; I won’t go to the room today.

Each year was a new hell. First alone - miserable solitude. Then with leeches covering my arms and chest, sucking from me what little I had. Then alone again, stifled by the heat of tape over my mouth. And at home the voices rose over the hum of the refrigerator, until I abandoned that room as well. The whirring of machines and the elated yelps from those whose faces I knew but whose names I did not, washed over me. And I remember the carpet with stains from people long gone and each step I took on it. Yet I entered the room every time; they would not permit me to escape again to a world of solace. When the eyes finally closed, now that was when my freedom began.

Don’t believe for a second that I did not gaze into the mirror with contempt - poking and prodding the withering petals of an unwatered flower. Feeling the hole so deeply, with pride that the hole could only grow bigger. It swallowed me whole, drowning me in the sensation of complete and total emptiness. I loved it. I don’t need to breathe.

.

In the end, the weight occupied each corner of my mind. I left not a speck of light, coating my own personal prison in the darkness I needed like air. Our atmosphere was thick yet sterile and I cleaned each day, hoping to rid the floor of the scuff marks. Closing myself into that small box, even in the dark the trees sparkled. What a beautiful choice I have made.

Always, that room with the crowds and the smells and the lights and the chairs - especially the chairs - loomed over me. Hard as I tried I couldn’t escape it. But today I won’t pass that threshold. And I didn’t. So if the room could be avoided for one day, why not two? Why not three? Ten? The possibilities were endless. I feel powerful, standing strong, unhampered by that weight.

Mostly the task was easy, though I could feel the room beckoning at certain hours of the day. It rose up in me, but I swallowed it down. I pushed it deeper, deeper, until there was nowhere left for it to go. One more push. And this time it would stay down. That room could not control me; I would control it. I was a far bigger expanse than even its most far reaching corners. I was far brighter than its artificial lights. I was nothing like the damp, crowded air of that room. I am nothing like it.

How many times would I lie to you? Maybe as many as I lied to myself. Do you remember gazing into my eyes? I wonder, did you detect the slightest hint of that weight? You smiled and waved, as though I were nothing. And I had escaped one more time. Of course, I didn’t fall for my own trickery, but you did. You most certainly did.

Under it all, I was becoming weak. Every step was a challenge to which I could not accept defeat. As I grasped the large clump of hair, I wept for the new hole. Buried under my blankets I shivered from the cold - though come to think of it, it was spring. My head continually pulsed, as though my brain were playing music for its own enjoyment. My nails broke off and my throat was dry and my muscles ached. But I could not let this stop me. I was winning, I had been from the start. To quit now would be abhorrent. I may have fallen - once, twice - but bruises never kept me off my feet.

No one hated me quite like you; no one’s words could ever cut so deep. I hear you now in my head, reminding me. Your voice screams above all the rest. You demand to be heard, though you don’t deserve my attention. Perhaps today will be the day. The snow is falling fast and it’s cold. I can see the lights through the window and somehow they seem dimmer than they did before. But the pull of your voice is louder still. Not today.

Golden rays stream through the window, stirring me from feverish nightmares of the room with red walls. The hole always feels deeper in the morning. As I get ready I hardly notice it. I think about the taste of coffee, slightly burned. Those colorful pieces seize my attention, refusing to surrender. Just like I crafted this, I can craft myself. People are only pieces, with a million colors scattered across the floor. Mine would be one with only sky.

Rare. The days I can remember are rare. As is my smile, my strength, my hope. I always wanted my brain to be quiet, and now it was. I flipped the light switch hoping for some clarity, but the bulb must have died. Oh, how happy I was in the world I created; finally a world with no rooms. It was only me and my own personal dungeon - finally free. I had made my dream come true, at the cost of my reality.

Yes, do you not remember what I said as I braced myself, gaze locked to the floor, and walked out the door? Well, my friend, I lied. I am hungry.

.

I entered through the heavy door; the air was hot - too hot. The chattering of the crowds overwhelmed my head, pounding in time with each step I took towards the room. The smell was revolting and the lights too bright. I could hear the buzzing of every machine. Every table was full, with one chair empty at the end. Standing arm to arm with each body, I pushed my way through the cue, deciding halfway that today was not my day. I left.

Longing for the time before would never disappear in my heart. Before each table had only four chairs, and I cried into the mess that would never reach my mouth. Before I stopped stepping foot through the doors of that room. Before I sat in the back, with the lockers towering over me, and no one noticed I was gone. Could I pretend that before was no different? Could I pretend that I had somehow changed? On second thought, no. The only difference being who, and where, and when.

In the end, the room was the reason. Not the smells, nor the lights, nor the chairs, nor the heat. To blame them was to give an answer to my indescribable pain. The room itself was a large expanse, filled to the brim with everything of which I was afraid. Memories of the table and benches flood back when my feet touch that laminate; an endless expanse, yet I had nothing to say. And I remember the table stretching out on either side of me, empty and vast as the hole I could never quite fill. The hole I now had no desire to fill. It stretches through me even now; I won’t go to the room today.

Each year was a new hell. First alone - miserable solitude. Then with leeches covering my arms and chest, sucking from me what little I had. Then alone again, stifled by the heat of tape over my mouth. And at home the voices rose over the hum of the refrigerator, until I abandoned that room as well. The whirring of machines and the elated yelps from those whose faces I knew but whose names I did not, washed over me. And I remember the carpet with stains from people long gone and each step I took on it. Yet I entered the room every time; they would not permit me to escape again to a world of solace. When the eyes finally closed, now that was when my freedom began.

Don’t believe for a second that I did not gaze into the mirror with contempt - poking and prodding the withering petals of an unwatered flower. Feeling the hole so deeply, with pride that the hole could only grow bigger. It swallowed me whole, drowning me in the sensation of complete and total emptiness. I loved it. I don’t need to breathe.

.

In the end, the weight occupied each corner of my mind. I left not a speck of light, coating my own personal prison in the darkness I needed like air. Our atmosphere was thick yet sterile and I cleaned each day, hoping to rid the floor of the scuff marks. Closing myself into that small box, even in the dark the trees sparkled. What a beautiful choice I have made.

Always, that room with the crowds and the smells and the lights and the chairs - especially the chairs - loomed over me. Hard as I tried I couldn’t escape it. But today I won’t pass that threshold. And I didn’t. So if the room could be avoided for one day, why not two? Why not three? Ten? The possibilities were endless. I feel powerful, standing strong, unhampered by that weight.

Mostly the task was easy, though I could feel the room beckoning at certain hours of the day. It rose up in me, but I swallowed it down. I pushed it deeper, deeper, until there was nowhere left for it to go. One more push. And this time it would stay down. That room could not control me; I would control it. I was a far bigger expanse than even its most far reaching corners. I was far brighter than its artificial lights. I was nothing like the damp, crowded air of that room. I am nothing like it.

How many times would I lie to you? Maybe as many as I lied to myself. Do you remember gazing into my eyes? I wonder, did you detect the slightest hint of that weight? You smiled and waved, as though I were nothing. And I had escaped one more time. Of course, I didn’t fall for my own trickery, but you did. You most certainly did.

Under it all, I was becoming weak. Every step was a challenge to which I could not accept defeat. As I grasped the large clump of hair, I wept for the new hole. Buried under my blankets I shivered from the cold - though come to think of it, it was spring. My head continually pulsed, as though my brain were playing music for its own enjoyment. My nails broke off and my throat was dry and my muscles ached. But I could not let this stop me. I was winning, I had been from the start. To quit now would be abhorrent. I may have fallen - once, twice - but bruises never kept me off my feet.

No one hated me quite like you; no one’s words could ever cut so deep. I hear you now in my head, reminding me. Your voice screams above all the rest. You demand to be heard, though you don’t deserve my attention. Perhaps today will be the day. The snow is falling fast and it’s cold. I can see the lights through the window and somehow, they seem dimmer than they did before. But the pull of your voice is louder still. Not today.

Golden rays stream through the window, stirring me from feverish nightmares of the room with red walls. The hole always feels deeper in the morning. As I get ready, I hardly notice it. I think about the taste of coffee, slightly burned. Those colorful pieces seize my attention, refusing to surrender. Just like I crafted this, I can craft myself. People are only pieces, with a million colors scattered across the floor. Mine would be one with only sky.

Rare. The days I can remember are rare. As is my smile, my strength, my hope. I always wanted my brain to be quiet, and now it was. I flipped the light switch hoping for some clarity, but the bulb must have died. Oh, how happy I was in the world I created; finally a world with no rooms. It was only me and my own personal dungeon - finally free. I had made my dream come true, at the cost of my reality.

Yes, do you not remember what I said as I braced myself, gaze locked to the floor, and walked out the door? Well, my friend, I lied. I am hungry.

.

Author: Summer Eaton