Tag: writing

• hands in the dirt

  (escapril, day 5: back to nature)

  I go into the backyard to remind myself that the world is not ending.

  How could I want to die, seeing such eager life?

  Blossoms opening up to the sun,

  Trees stretching for her warmth,

  Microorganisms squirming and fighting in the ground,

  Nature’s striving down to the very molecule.

   

  The loam sits heavy between my fingers, filling them with moist warm filth.

  Dirt might be a tragedy but

  Not outside, not after the rain.

   

  I sit here with the cooling earth in my hands and I let it all be.

  April 6, 2019

  writing

  ---

• skindeep

  (escapril, day 4: anxiety)

  It’s a thick thing hanging low in my belly

  A point or two off from nausea

  Sparking wires in my core

  Never going to catch flame

   

  I see my hands in front of my face

  Ugly thick clumsy pink things

  I want to tear them off

  All they do is cause trouble

   

  There’s an itch inside me

  I scratch at my skin but it’s deeper than that

  I’m bloody and unsatisfied

  Bits of myself lodged under my fingernails

   

  Picking at all the sore spots along the surface

  Raw cuticles starting to ooze

  Peeling away layer after layer

   

  I think I’m bridging two wavelengths

  No one else seems to be getting these signals

  It’s driving me crazy

  Squirming in this too-tight skin

  Maybe I’ll break out but I’ll be

  One ugly butterfly

   

  April 5, 2019

  writing

  ---

• back of the bus

  (escapril, day 3: incorporate music)

  Memories of happy times leave

  An acrid smokey sting in the back of my throat

  as they burn in the fire of my regretful consciousness.

  I don’t want it to be over.

  I want to stay in the interminable ‘and then.’

   

  I used to cling on to my bedframe

  Like a scared child, a wounded animal,

  Bare my teeth and hiss and resist with all my paltry strength,

  Spitting blood, feeling the hitch in the melody

  Under my bones-

  That was a different kind of fire.

   

  Now it’s just how it goes.

  I get whisked away to somewhere new,

  Somewhere not at all different,

  Somewhere everyone looks at me funny.

   

  I slip in the back, keep my head down, no raising my hand.

  Playing it safe -whatever that means here; wherever ‘here’ even is.

  But when I look up,

  Everyone’s still looking at me funny.

   

  I get fed up.

  Find someone softer, easier prey

  A quick little shove redirects attention

  And they’ll stop looking at me funny.

   

  Stomping my feet slightly off rhythm,

  Blend into the woodwork,

  So easy to sit in the back of the bus

  As someone else’s crunching under it.

  I just think it’s kinda funny.

  April 4, 2019

  writing

  ---

• lazy sunday

  (escapril, day 2: april showers)

  I hear the pitter patter on the window and smile in my sleep.

  The growl of the school bus and squeals of children are nowhere to be heard today,

  Replaced with quiet drops sliding down our outside edges.

  There’s time to stretch, to become reacquainted with myself,

  I can roll out of bed, really roll, roll off the mattress onto the nubbly carpet with a yawn and a laugh.

   

  When I look into the mirror, there’s blue black smudges under my eyes

  And maybe some toothpaste in my hair

  Remnants of the night before.

  Not too pretty, but it doesn’t particularly matter

  Not for a few more hours.

   

  It’s another rainy Sunday and I’ve woken up early enough for

  Fluffy pancakes

  Cold toes on crooked hardwood

  Meaningless chatter, inside jokes stretching back fourteen years

  Knees stuffed under oversized shirts

  Fond familiarity

  All this squeezed in

  Before church at nine.

  April 3, 2019

  writing

  ---

• ayah

  (escapril, day 1: a fresh start)

  She skins the onion with practiced ease,

  Nail under crackly brown skin, a swift jerk of removal, repeat twice.

  Then onto the next.

  When she’s done and they’re sizzling in the pan, she peels an orange.

  Sweet citrus juice keeps her nailbeds sweet

  And the dog likes to eats the rind.

   

  Cleaning is quick now.

  She’s been here long enough.

  She knows every nook and cranny of the big old house, knows where candy wrappers are stuffed and old cigarettes carelessly dropped. She’s careful of loose tiles and worn wood and ragged ends and she never forgets to dust the desk in the corner of the study.

   

  She walks the dog along the river,

  Smiling at the calls of fruit vendors and the giggles of girls flirting for a better price and the gnarled old man picking up polished rocks from the shore.

  Nothing bad ever happens inside these walls.

   

  In a few hours, she’ll pick the kids up from school, walk them home, listen to their chatter

  Give them warm beds and full bellies and clean scalps and a kind ear and they’ll be alright without the mother’s touch.

  They’re good kids.

  She says good night to the Mister when he sneaks in half past ten

  And walks herself home through mildewed streets.

  She lies in bed, watches her chest rise and fall as she dips into sleep-

  Today is done. Tomorrow’s coming soon.

  April 1, 2019

  writing

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