Olivia Dodge
Bio
20 | Chicago
Stories (50/0)
New Year
The new year is making your cheeks warm and you can’t remember the last time your heart didn’t race in the silence. It’s so hard to tell them how you would drink poison if it meant their legs still carried your weight and it’s been months since you felt safe here — in this cushion of love which means to provide it nonetheless. In this room you scream at death’s door and beg for answers to questions you have not yet asked! You shriek and the walls rumble and it is felt through miles how this plea is being held by your mother’s hands.
By Olivia Dodge6 months ago in Poets
10/1/22
Oh it’s here again creeping and crawling and scratching and my nose is running but my feet cannot my mind does not keep up with the keys they are too soft the world is shattering around me nothing is making sense I’m feeling helpless again I’m feeling alone again the sun is setting again oh I’m not sure how long this will last are you busy can you talk can I cry in front of you just this once that’s okay I’ll be okay yes I’m sure I promise I’m not lying oh it’s dark again wailing and revving and gusting the windows scream inside our home I am sinking into the cushion you don’t need to pull me up I can live here like this just like this scratching and wailing yes that’s okay the keys are steady ringing my heart is beating my lungs are expanding my blood is flowing my mind is swimming this means I am alive oh yes it’s here again this being of cold air he will see to it that I am taken care of see he has thrown a blanket on the ground and this will be enough
By Olivia Dodge8 months ago in Poets
Combination of November Cold and Autumn Storms
November brings cold before it arrives— an appetizer to snowstorms and the webs between my toes cracking like caramelized oil. I lie in bed and my heart aches. The angels in our walls have hidden, a collage missing blue completed only when the sun sleeps in early day, and the forecast shows a break in clouds but this thunder is unforgiving. Inches away relief scoffs in my ears with bright lights. I never noticed the trim on the ceiling; did you? Abstract vases, abstract voices, will you please release this air inside of me for one moment— quietly, softly, do not disturb relief. Hung on the north wall it now finds rest, the centerpiece for guests. I will reach out and I will hold my breath and I will try my best to place my heart aside. I invite you to stand and observe— see this darkness drown the floors. Panic feels familiar beneath my skin, manifesting behind my eyes and should I check my pulse? As I suspected. How the need for words squirms in my throat. Are you still awake? November is here and purple paint is standing aside giving room for small light to grow. Breathe this breath in heaven and do not let it go. Give me your hand, take it from my chest. I feel I will implode with silent sobs if this warmth does not touch me. Will you hold me? Just until I fall asleep.
By Olivia Dodgeabout a year ago in Poets
What Other Name But Anxiety
I’m fighting an imaginary battle vines becoming roots and skies cracking like pavement a tenebrific warzone of rashes under my skin the plaque is caking on these eggshell walls and it sounds like anger but I assure you it is sadness it is the loss of life loss of blood loss of my future glazed in sweat not tears but waters have always been nugatory rivers do not flow without an incline and my eyes do not shut when you are away every piece of dust that breathes is a different shade of green but they are running together now forest and hunter and olive all one giant bilious disaster growing within soil shedding skin and teeth biting into glass waiting for the crunch that says this is the one to leave a mark
By Olivia Dodgeabout a year ago in Poets
Faster / Brave
There is a camera tracking my every move— not in a daunting or malicious manner, a gift of purpose, the gift of matter. Watch me fold this paper and think of the lens which captures it. Do not be afraid— focus your senses on the movement of my pen. It is an ice skater behind bars— hands glued to iron and feet bruised and bloody. Ah, here the cold sets in. Watch now as my mind skips through puddles of wanting— hands moving faster now— heart moving faster now— faster now.
By Olivia Dodgeabout a year ago in Poets
August
I lie in bed and my heart aches. The angels in our walls have hidden and the forecast shows a break in clouds but this thun- der is unforgiving. Inches away relief scoffs in my ears with bright lights. I never noticed the trim on the ceiling; did you? Abstract vases, abstract voices, will you please release this air inside of me for one moment— quietly, softly, do not disturb relief. I will reach out and I will hold my breath and I will try my best to place my heart aside. Panic feels familiar beneath my skin, manifesting behind my eyes and should I check my pulse? As I suspected. How the need for words squirms in my throat. Are you still awake? Breathe this breath in heaven and do not let it go. Give me your hand, take it from my chest. I feel I will implode with silent sobs if this warmth does not touch me. Will you hold me? Just until I fall asleep.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Sleepy Autumn
I haven’t much to say as of late. The blooms have not blinded and the branches have not swayed. My feet have not scuffed and my hair has not curled. It is almost October again. Light shines fewer now. The sun is getting tired again. I can feel the phrases of exhaustion rumble within train tracks. See, this time of year brings joy to its falling action. My pants are too big and my shoes have holes in them. Can you feel the sleep in my words? I should like you to read this as a bedtime story. Softly.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
- Top Story - August 2022
Headlights Aren’t Always Lullabies Top Story - August 2022
We grew up differently, you see. A child in muddy water who has never been so scared at the site of the world around them. Wasps with wings as large as propellers and the shells of a bug they would come to admire scattered across oceans. Headlights so bright their childhood home paints across their eyelids in neon colors. You, hand held and laces tied but a twinge in your brow for you can see how this river once flowed with blood. Arms and legs bound with cement, memories transcribed below them. There are countless ways to open a carcass— take its hand and jump head first. Father always said to watch my feet but my eyes were drawn to the sky. A beratement around each corner, internal alarms so silent I had yet to hear them for years. Every headlight becomes a lullaby if you shut your eyes tight enough. Every stop sign becomes an apology if you’re delusional enough. You say your child- hood drags behind you like a dead body but mine has always dragged me.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Murals in Their Eyes
There is a man on the bus who covers his face hand-crafted covid repellent or what ever it may be do not look at me his eyes wander far unto the back seats his legs rebel against him stay stay stay the newspaper one day and an untouched grocery bag the next I have no choice and there’s no one at the train station at 9pm on a Sunday you say these emotions within you are heavy and my shadow is just far enough away to make my heart race but this poet took his time he made a mural of his words so when I pass I will stop in my tracks and imagine the grocery bags where have you gone now look at me look at me I will pull the cord for you but my stop is soon I did not mean to shake you from your slumber ma’am I mean to exit now and so our time together ends will I see you here again on this west-bound route look at me answer me
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets