Olivia Dodge
Bio
22 | Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
Stories (56/0)
Learning To Use My Words
I fell through the ice at nine years old and I’ve lived with bruised toes since. I’ve learned to walk on my heels until the skin slides off with the meat on your brittle bones. I guess winter is comforting because I relive tragedies in my feet and not behind my eyes. I’ve known the world can never be snow white but I cannot explain the bright glare of clouds consuming my small glass plane. I should name myself a victim with an icy layer in my throat. It has been there for most of my life and I suppose it will never leave. Attempting to speak with warmth melts the white in my throat and comes out only as tears. I have tried to burn myself. I have tried to burn you too. We have sparked knives and metal and I have melted the first layer but I fear that’s all I can do. Will you stay long enough to see ocean levels rise? Will you stay long enough to watch my bruises die and resurrect with the seasons? I cannot promise much but I will hold your muscle in place so it does not fall with me.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Rollerskating and Defeat
April Prompts by @aev.poetry — I skate across the face of the earth / maybe this is where I admit defeat Remember how I said I wanted to rollerskate? I know it’s silly to chase after this thing in my childhood that never once really brought me joy. I guess I just hoped it would be different now that my legs work again. They tell us the fires will erupt tonight. My shoes are covered in mud again. I know I should pay more mind to the ground beneath my feet but the city is burning and I cannot bear to look away. Perhaps in another life I pull my skates from my bag and I skate across the face of the earth. They are flameproof here. Wheels turning and windows shattering and my legs are giving out again. Flameproof is not mudproof. Maybe this is where I admit defeat. Gliding across oceans with broken limbs and orange in my once blue eyes. We were never meant to survive this. Rollerskating was never in the cards for me. I’m not sure why I ever tried. Metaphors have not burrowed in my gums for some time and I fear the bones in my legs will slip from my throat. It is all about fear isn’t it? Permanent stains and melting beams and I just realized this version of me is not human. She is everything I am not. There’s your answer.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Reflections of Past Pleading
I reflect upon my words from past lives and I can feel the desperation— the sickening beg of a child and the grimace of men with ample bread. I suppose I was once the child smeared with dirt and find him now loathsome as he reminds the man I am of earth’s cruelty. I’m told my pleading is a means to understand emotion but I cannot grasp the possibility that all this time I have been begging not for bread but for jam. I have held biscuits beneath my coat for ages and watched them crumble each week as men pass without glance. I should confide in this child and ask him the source of the paintbrush strokes upon his skin. I do not wish to beg much longer. Reflections have often found sanctuary in my pockets— painted blue clouds beneath the thunderheads. He tells me he is searching through clouds of despair while women send their pity through silence. How I wish to hold his polluted hands. My polluted heart. I sit patiently on this invisible balcony with knives in my chest. Reflection could be therapeutic I suppose. If nothing more I should inspect the soles of my child’s shoes for I have known myself to crush memories beneath my feet. How I wish to capture this boy’s misery from his eyes and house it for years to come. Our wounds fester and heal from afar— this has always been and will always be our reflection.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Lessons From My Father
prompt “my father taught me…” by @spokensincerely I’m not sure if you recall the conversations with my childhood ghost. I’d spoken of his melancholia and incessant need for comfort. My father taught me comfort is best stored beneath the skin. Hidden away in the glovebox with tags from 2013. Only when my ghost passed on did he tell me— show me— comfort should be given in the open. On the balcony above swarms of bees and in the front yard of every home we eventually left. There is a disdain that festers in my veins at the thought of his emotional insecurity. I am not my father. I am not the colic ghost (anymore). It is foolish to wish for change in a time that has succumbed to strict division. My father taught me many things. How not to express anger. How not to speak with those you love. How not to love. I’m not sure if he recalls the conversations with my childhood ghost. Why are you crying? You don’t need to do that. It is best to keep these things hidden. I’m sure he does not realize this idea has taken months— years— to reverse the etching in my internal cement. I’m sure I could never hand him the carvings in my skin and receive the comfort for which my ghost still pleads. I’m sure disdain has found permanent residence in my shriveled lungs.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Metaphors For My Love
my love for you is the lonesome feather a child grasps to show his mother in awe / an array of hand-painted portraits scattered above our bodies laid to rest / burnt glass that I cannot bear to throw down the chute / droplets of rain finding warmth upon my brow / trite plastic bouquets hung by a single nail / teeth indenting skin and purple to yellow left behind / a knife within my chest that I cannot pull for fear of agonizing pain / closets half-empty / the burning behind my eyelids when I forget to blink / a single window lit by a candle nearing its death / hours of melody curated by mutual fingers / plucking the last feather on my back to present to you in awe
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Thursday 1/6/22
There is a storm beneath my skin. An overflow of energy— the desire to destroy the path in front of me. Winter is unforgiving this year. Dysphoria often feels heavy within me. My weightlessness feels like comfort. A numbness which gains weight over time. An endless cycle. The words are engraved in my chest— a man who slept at the bus stop and froze to death. Snowflakes stick to my window and disappear through the night. The storm welcomes me. She is within my body and between the buildings. She created Christianity if only to send locusts into the church. She is beneath my covers and frozen at the bus stop. I should like to subscribe to love as one does to Christianity. Give my woes to another man— trust that he holds the secrets to prosperity with his handkerchief. I wonder if the invisible storm will grow numb over time. It is strange how two blocks from my apartment the wind suddenly comes to life. The storm tells me that I shan’t destroy my path for she will do it instead. A locust skin is scattered to pieces beneath a tree. Next to his corpse there is a handkerchief. I like to think she is welcoming me— I’m glad you’re home.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Ode to Anne / Change of Seasons
Should I break the fourth wall? Should I call upon you who reads this and ask— what am I supposed to do when my lungs fill with acid and my heart cannot quieten? I have not written in days and I can feel it— I mean really feel it— inside of my throat begging to be gagged free. Anticipation claws at my eyelids. My angels have not spoken to me in weeks. I watch this woman each day— walking through endless halls carrying frames which may as well be strangers. I don’t think I know anything anymore. I’ve lost it all. Should I break the fourth wall? Should I call upon this woman, a character in my mind? She is real, you know. She peers out the window. All the wrong places. I can feel springtime upon the soles of my feet. I always loved spring. There is a tree on my bus’s route decorated with a million birdhouses. [I like to think the birds know one another] Can I be frank? I miss February. She gave me an excuse to feel miserable. You’ve survived February, Dear. The spinney will bloom adjacent to sidewalks and your skin will no longer shed each night as ice upon your lips. You are so close to warmth. When I find myself above the toilet tonight with prayers spilling from my throat I will remember these words. Until then.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Love, Plainly
Love seems to be one of the many things which humans cannot fathom, in any sense. Any sense, we do not understand what it is to love something with our entire being. Our entire being is ours; it does not belong to someone else, so why would we devote it to anyone but us? It’s selfish, plainly. Plainly put, we do not love because we are selfish. In any sense, humans are vile and we cannot allow love within our entire beings because we need strength and love makes us weak. It’s simple. And we cannot fathom this-- why? Any sense, any sense at all, we cannot love because love is weakness but we are so tired of being strong. Weakness is not unfathomable, not like love is-- we gather our weaknesses and keep them within our beings because they protect us from the vile and selfish feelings that our bodies force us to have. Love has no room within me. I am too full of weakness to be handed a strength disguised as weakness. We cannot fathom this, in any sense-- strength is hidden within weakness but we are selfish still. Is it not vile? It is vile to witness this lack of sense, this lack of sense in any sense. My entire being is love, plainly put. Yes, plainly put, there is no room for love because that is what I am made of and is that not vile? To preach of humanity’s selfishness and be made of the weakness which we fear. Our being is ours. Our being is weakness. We are made of love, but we cannot love ourselves. Love does not want to be understood.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Haunted Earth
The haunted earth tells me the angels are watching over me and have felt my sadness and are sending me love and healing. There are puddles on the sidewalk and I look for the clouds but it is a man watering his grass. Why don’t I believe him— that the universe in its haunting can recognize despair. My footprints remain for mere minutes in the sun, I know this. I am sure we are made of discontent. I’m sure of it— the ghosts and apparitions long to consume our sadness in their endless days. It is warm in the sun. How they must wander. Wandering haunted plains as November approaches and trees become barren. They watch over me— us— humans— all things living. I wonder if the sun is a ghost. Apparitions send warmth to our chambers and hope we will feel them with us but we cannot. We shade our eyes with our hands and how he must scowl at us. I want to welcome the sun— oh, but what of wrinkles? My eyes cannot become old. Without belief we cannot begin to heal, he tells me. The haunted earth scowls. Apparitions hold their palms open— they collect our pain and it becomes a passing memory. Our sadness may be a ghost as well. My footprints are no longer visible as the sun has taken my print and transformed it into a ghost because he too wants a friend. November is nearly here, my friend.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Letting Go
What’s the hardest part about letting go? The sun always seems too bright. Time moves slowly. My feet drag through mud and I just can’t find it in me to scrape the remains on the sidewalk. When darkness falls I miss the shadows. I watch myself age in the mirror each day. My socks are too thin. Every song spits memories in my face. Thunderstorms keep me awake at night and I can’t decipher if they’re real anymore. It all feels like a test. Like I’m supposed to catch Aroldis Chapman’s pitch with my bare hands. Like my shattered bones should exceed expectations. Like the ambulance had planned my injury and waited patiently for the crack. I tell them to cover the windows. They mock my dirt-ridden shoes. I cannot find my voice. Is this another test? Darkness comes quickly. Paramedics sing our song in unison. None of this is real. I do not have the strength to let go. This torturous hallucination could not possibly be worse than a reality with endless grief.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets