Take Me Home
till death do us
The mother wound
Got me crying rainbows -
Take Me Home
to exercise Presence
and
I will love myself
to death.
Till death do us part
with that big ass heart.
Artists are just big kids
with their inner child
still intact.
Let us be infantile, while
we’re changing the cosmic pact.
TAKE ME HOME;
Let me wear monochrome
& read before sleep.
I want simple life,
I want it slow & deep.
One of my spirit guides is cocky.
They say:
“Let ‘em catch up with you,
It’s okay”
About the Creator
Anastasita Qualia
Sita of ArtQuemistica is an energy worker & an artist. She is interested in creation of Safe Space for understanding of Self as well as in cultural commentary on the edge of existentialism. Her sense of the world is both ethereal & brutal.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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