Olivia Dodge
Bio
22 | Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
Stories (56/0)
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 Dodge2 years 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 Dodge2 years 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
You Bring Me Softness Still
I don’t know how much longer I can cover these tiles in bloody words. They’re going to touch my feet eventually. And what then? Who will wipe the remains and dispose of the towels? You are so far away and I’ve been trying to take one step for hours now. I know you think the water is beautiful but my heart races at the darkness and I wish your arms would carry me to bed like you always did. Isn’t blood supposed to be warm? Slowly. Slowly. I will heal slowly in time. I am running out of time. You are right in front of me and I’ve been trying to draw you with my eyes closed. Why won’t you shake me awake? I am tired of being without you. You love the water and my hands are cold like an ocean breeze and my eyes are made of sand. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this water at bay but I know it will be okay because you are alive and I am yours. You are years away and you bring me softness still.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
After: New Sublet, Runner
Purple is blossoming across the street and my hands ache to be held in yours. I find it difficult to see the amusement in my skin complementing your favorite flower. Soon enough veins will burst and we will be left drowning— vacillation amongst our will to live. The sky has been grey for ages now. My eyes, my mother’s hair, my favorite shirt, all reflected in fog. How thrilling it must be to have your twisted roots torn each season and placed in safety. Two weeks have passed and purple bloss- oms into red, yellow, fire, danger— contrasted against rain and the death of my umbrella. I think of Vladimir Nabokov: It’s cold today, but in a spring way, and I love you. How the sea- sons make me feel. The first uproot takes place in fall. October ties my ankles and drags me through mud. The second uproot is the hottest of seasons. And the third. And the fourth. Each time I am drenched in irritation. Here the sky is blue, diamond, ocean, sapphire. Streets fill with scuffle and my boxes rip more than not. It is a strange affliction— getting addicted to starting all over again. My hands ache still.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Combining Blackouts
I’ve spoken of your hands pulling me beneath tides and clouds in every season for my palms are ready to burst. I wonder if the sun would watch the second my spine is ashes. October happens every fall but never felt so angry. My anger poured into a person. Feeling is the closest thing to home. It is not sunny enough. My vices did not turn to minutes. I hope life in the eruption did not burn with your fingertips and my bones— they would exist for me. My feet flinch on his skin. Nothing could feel the same. I let a page flip to my fingers. This page was in my dreams— my mind’s realm. He should evaporate from the north. At 30,000 feet my anger felt distant. I beg of you and the seasons which drowned me. Sitting next to me I felt longing. Pieces spewing upon my palms for I should matter. Wrapped in warmth— the moment is enough. He will know his inspiration may have been brewing like bees and crushed leaves over the years— never in October.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets