Pastels
Like Sundays That Pass Without Speaking a Word
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.
About the Creator
Isabel Siobhan
21 / student / criminology / history / Colorado / improviser / poet / scorpio / spooky girl
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