gremlin

The paperweight on the balcony is beautiful right now

I love the way the rays of sun are bleeding rainbows—

like prismatic rivers—through the window glass,

and how the shadow of the birdhouse stains

the whiteness of the shutter

It’s reminding me of something:

That dream I had?

The one that tiptoes on my memory,

begging not to be forgotten,

the figment of my higher self—

a phantom of my own subliminal truth

Anyway, I’m awake now.

No, I’m not—

My aromatic cup of coffee is fighting a dense battle,

trying its best to keep me present

I sip finely ground Arabian,

which tethers my senses,

but I’m not too sure it’s working as it should—

my thoughts are an escaped balloon,

floating to the skylight

I’m terrible at this: at meditation

I cannot be anchored

And the morning—it’s alive, I feel

It speaks to me (somehow, someway)

There’s a whisper—

a reminiscence of the afternoon,

or of the sunset,

almost like—as if—it’s golden hour:

it must mean something—

I think it means that summer, now,

is on its way to our adjacent—

to that far-off place on Earth’s other side,

where other languages are spoken

and other minds—

who live such different lives and dream

such different dreams—

have waited in the shadows for its warmth

—all throughout their winter—

And I think the sun—right now, in this very instant—

must be trying to say goodbye to me,

preparing me to be all alone—

like a doe sending off her half-grown fawn into

the forest,

where the wolves are starved,

and lurking

Wait

Why do I insist on painting myself in this

penumbra?

As such an abandoned, frightened child, that is?

Think deeply, love:

Breathe, ✨Reflect✨

Are you there?

Yes, I’m here again—sitting and observing

What do you see?

That the dappled sunlight’s started shifting—

that I still have uncertain, wobbly legs,

and nearly every single one of my speckled markings is

still visible on

✨my body✨

Ah, that’s why

Yes, I was afraid of this—

She’s caged in here somewhere—the young girl—

the little, lost fawn,

the one that never quite outgrew the monsters in

her closet

Oh please, dear Sun, don’t leave me out here in

this darkness—

✨Not Again✨

It’s already September, though—too late for that, Sweet Pea

Damn, this coffee is strong

I’m waking up—I see it now:

The shadow of the birdhouse hangs

a tad bit lower than it used to

Strange markings cast a grimace on those same,

ivory shutters,

and the leaves—

the way that they, too, eclipse the daylight—

the way they shape themselves into a pair of claws that

reach for me—

hungrily,

pulling me into this very place I’ve feared,

to the place that I write

—and daydream—

to escape from

Why am I running, though?

It’s this eternal Autumn that I’m stuck in—

this never-ending sense of fading summers

I’m an adult—I promise—

but I cannot fight this childish aversion to

the season:

(it saddens me somehow)

People worship it—I don’t get it—

the leaves, the jack-o-lanterns, the costumes—

the anticipation of the gremlins—

the same ones I’m constantly at war to rid myself of—

the cheezy, cheap decor:

it’s all a facade—the adoration of

the waning temperatures, the

shortening of the days, the

looming Equinox—the stupid

pumpkin lattes, the farewell of

the Earth’s life-giving star,

it’s all make-believe—

{{it has to be}}

it’s all a game of dumb charades

Either that, or I am just not from this planet

Fitting, I guess:

I’ve never felt that I belong here

Speaking of disguises, though

Who am I now?—

conjuring a poem with not a word that rhymes

or flows, ✨for once✨

Who am I pretending that I am?

What mask could I be wearing?

Myself, I think—and my own:

the honest & emancipated me,

—unbridled—

The world will never believe me when I say that I’ve

been fantasizing

of doing this for quite a while now—

of cutting ties with my waterfall,

curated style—

the carefully metered lyricism that has become

my symbolistic art form—

of letting my inhibitions run free and feral:

unharnessed,

like a whirl of wild horses—

into all the open spaces that abound,

blooming star-faced asters for my

creativity—

giving themselves to me willingly, without question,

to weave into unmatching bracelets

I can dangle ‘round my wrists

like wind chimes,

✨for I can now become the wind✨

There’s so much strength and wisdom to explore here—to appreciate,

there’s so much rawness—and

there are no lines or boundaries:

I’m limitless

Is this what creative freedom truly feels like?

Is this what—

Wait, I wonder now:

Could I be—am I fucking everything up?

Are my words still pretty? Or have they lost their charm

and luster?

Will people still follow me—read my pieces?

I worry so dearly they won’t know what

to expect of me now—

that the ugly truth might scare them all away

Wait. Who the hell did I frighten as a child?

Why do I feel as if

I’ll send the whole world running?

Why does this fear burn so rampant and

rabidly

within me?

It’s the recurring gremlin—the lost, little girl—

my inner child

who’s afraid of losing the only thing that makes her feel pretty:

her words

And as the sun fades out—

as the coffee tethers me ever so closely to

the Earth,

and as the paperweight

no longer

refracts a line of lovely rainbows through the window,

I remember, once again,

that the Fall's coming—

that it’s nearly Halloween,

and that the gremlin deep inside of me will surely want

to play.

*

-Gina C. 🧚‍♀️✨