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Pastels

Like Sundays That Pass Without Speaking a Word

By Isabel SiobhanPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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The other night you asked me what I dreamt about

I told you that I have ivy crowding my vision and that city-skyline hallucinations are all that seem to keep me going,

These days.

Someday it will all have been worth it

My body may be tired

The seams of my psyche becoming a little looser under the

Weight of too many 2 am scurrying flash and bang preoccupations

But someday this will all pay off.

I don’t feel a lot, these days

just muted emotions, pastel

I hate pastels

I prefer darks like blood and eggplant, wine and spices and the last thirty seconds of sunset

like heat in the back of my throat, red in the face, heavy behind my eyeballs

ache in my ribcage

nothing here seems real.

I need to put my hands on something solid

because all I’ve seen in this place is paint chips and straw

flimsy

I miss my red rock sandstone monoliths

his hands,

sun drenched passenger seats and front porches

voices that feel like home

I want to live for the

Chemical rush of autonomy in my veins the

Promise of an open horizon like blank canvas or maybe unopened cabinets

Someday all of this clutter won’t matter very much,

I hope

Like the way my eye still lingers on every red car I pass

Even though it doesn't mean anything anymore

Forgotten totem buried beneath sand seas

I want to make a toast

To the inevitability of adolescence falling away to a

Sink or swim existence but in a beautiful kind of way,

A process that says "here are your wings,

Take them and fly until the atmosphere bleeds into the cosmos"

and your shoulder blades will hurt and your vision will blur

but you’ll be moving forward

I crave the bitter fruit of struggle and failure and flourish and discovery,

Of pavement and street food,

of being alone in a crowd

even though sometimes I worry that I’ll fade into the background

invisible girl

like Sundays that pass without speaking a word

Let me grow.

Let me fill journals to the brim with things that I don't want anyone else to see

Then lose them, lose my mind lose my perspective of reality

Skin my ideologies, turn them inside out and give them back

sometimes it’s hard even to be properly lonely

but I’m trying.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Isabel Siobhan

21 / student / criminology / history / Colorado / improviser / poet / scorpio / spooky girl

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