Most recently published stories in Poets.
An Artifice Addict's Attempt at Non-fiction
I look down. I’m not sure why. Who am I? I'm stumped. Used to be? Want to be? Should be? Perhaps they’re some answers I can supply,
Short Talk on Identity
I wanted to be Cinderella, so I dreamed of her ballgown. The blue enchanted me into its depths, and I wanted to drown. When I found her at Prom Forever, I silently wept. How disappointing it is to grow up dreaming of slim princesses only to find the unflattering feeling of wearing what’s not made for your figure. I bought a green sweater at Ardenes and I realized the colour that fit me; The colours that made me sparkle. I remember admiring the trees on long bus rides, and tickling blades of grass on sunny days. An element some believe to be ugly but surrounds our life and nature. When I bought my sage dress, I was doubtful and unsure, but I now notice its beauty, just as it noticed me.
I remember being told nobody would Want me. Love me. I'm broken. Too much baggage. Too many kids. The list unfortunately, goes on.
Short Talk on being an Insomniac Dream Addict
I toss and turn under colourful covers, my attempts to rest peacefully under white noise ignored by stubborn human functions. I restlessly press my eyes together, desperately distracted by the stars that shoot across my mind; I cling to them, hoping they’ll fly me away. Instead, I examine them in the dark hours, delaying the drift. When the clocks pass to AM I’m still here, dreaming with eyes wide open. The other night I could not pull my gaze away from the image of singing a flowerful melody for packed bleachers and theatre seats. Wandering with the feelings of ecstatic excitement, I promptly sat up to write this piece.
Short Talk on my Reflection
I’ve discovered that time travel and the epitome of magic begins with our reflection, the tugging urge to press our fingertips against the clear glass and melt into another world. Were people as enchanted by rusted silver as we are with our bathroom fixtures? In the evening, I lock myself in the bathroom, when every sound is asleep. I gaze at the figure in mismatched pyjamas and flip a coin to decide whether to smile or cry. I fix my fingers through the folds of soft cheap fabric and impulsively clean the counters to procrastinate my bodily needs. Sometimes the anger boils so hot I come inches away from 7 years of bad luck. Instead, I splash the cold water over my many faces and fingers and decide it's time for bed.
Working Title: Fear
Why does being human hurt? Why is existing exhausting? I've never felt like this before. I've never felt like nothing before.
Finding luck. Does it even exist? It must for some. How easily some slide through their lives, hopping from lily pad to lily pad. Always landing perfectly, never a second thought to the possibility of it being any other way.
When I’m with you Nothing No one else exists There is nothing more to resist But to stay here And exist In the moment
Bad, Bad, Bad
Sittn’ on a barstool Listening to the music play He was acting like a fool Telling everyone his name * A gambler, playing pool
Today, I am grateful for
The privilege I hold of forgetting about inhumanity for a few hours. The ability to question established modus operandi. The steaminess of my bathing water.
In the theater of emotions, a tragic scene unfolds, A tale of love, now fractured, stories left untold. Heartbreak, the conductor of this mournful play,
Dancing Inside The house had been so night-time silent, & I was alone in the light of the TV screen. The sound was off, I just stared at my hands.