I haven’t much to say as of late. The blooms have not blinded and the branches have not swayed. My feet have not scuffed and my hair has not curled. It is almost October again. Light shines fewer now. The sun is getting tired again. I can feel the phrases of exhaustion rumble within train tracks. See, this time of year brings joy to its falling action. My pants are too big and my shoes have holes in them. Can you feel the sleep in my words? I should like you to read this as a bedtime story. Softly.
— ODH
About the Creator
Olivia Dodge
22 | Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
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Headlights Aren’t Always Lullabies
We grew up differently, you see. A child in muddy water who has never been so scared at the site of the world around them. Wasps with wings as large as propellers and the shells of a bug they would come to admire scattered across oceans. Headlights so bright their childhood home paints across their eyelids in neon colors. You, hand held and laces tied but a twinge in your brow for you can see how this river once flowed with blood. Arms and legs bound with cement, memories transcribed below them. There are countless ways to open a carcass— take its hand and jump head first. Father always said to watch my feet but my eyes were drawn to the sky. A beratement around each corner, internal alarms so silent I had yet to hear them for years. Every headlight becomes a lullaby if you shut your eyes tight enough. Every stop sign becomes an apology if you’re delusional enough. You say your child- hood drags behind you like a dead body but mine has always dragged me.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
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