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Shrubs Can't Talk
The streets glitter as if the sun beat the concrete into millions of little diamonds. If not for the pressure of heat. The tension. I think the streets might revert to sand. The occasional car swooshes by. Marrying the scent of rubber, grass, and wind. I stare from behind my sunglasses. With the way I'm staring, you'd assume I had superpowers. Like Cyclops from the X-Men. But I'm not Scott Summers. I don't have ruby quartz glasses, and my dad isn't a weird space pirate.
I’m a Frozen Pipe
I’ve been torturing myself for months trying to gift-wrap everything I don’t know into prettily packaged words like I'm Maya Angelou. I’d steal her face and wear it as a mask, but if I did, that would be dishonest, and I promised myself I would be honest with you. I’ve decided to step into my skin because the truth is an ugly head with two faces that will charge at you like an angry bull. If the truth doesn’t kill me, my pride will. So, I’ll stop beating around the bush.
I lost my best friend a year ago.
The Pond
The pond sat like a gem in the distance. I have lived here for years but remained regretfully unaware of its presence. Almost as if someone draped my eyes in wool and told me to stay away. But the pond called to me like a siren in the blissful wake of clouds.
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a Book without a Face or a Spine
When I search my mind to find the story of how we met, I come back with nothing but hazy images of bugs and trees and concrete next to a brick schoolhouse bathing underneath a canary yellow sun with fuzzy edges. As the years fade, it seems as if you simply appeared from particles that were electrically charged and highly reactive.
I don’t fear death
Many people believe that when you die, you ascend to heaven as a reward for a lifetime of devotion. That submission to God grants eternal happiness with the people you lost too soon. To me, there is no religion or spiritual world. Death is a black hole of immense nothingness and forgiveness. Nonjudgmental.
23 Chromosomes
Obsession leads to madness, so I only think of you once or twice a year. I don’t mean to sound mean, but it’s the cold, hard truth. You’re a leech on my psyche, a fly in my ear. Yet I still want to hold you, to love you, but I can’t keep something that was never really mine in the first place. You are a vague memory now, a ghostly recollection of firsthand accounts recounted by Mom. She told me about the dusty holes in the floor where furniture once stood and the stillness of an empty house.
God is…
I don’t have a problem with God because God is neither true nor untrue, and simply exists as a concept invented and reinvented by man. Birthed and destined to take on any assignment. To be called by any name and molded like clay, only given life when Man breathes.