Indigo Sun

The sun burns my skin. It is hot, strong, and smells of      fire. I cook, I bake, I let the      rays from the sky shoot into my     pores. I sweat. I burn, I tan. I am     bronze, I am olive, the color of my grandmother, the color of my     ancestors.

I look down at my     blue veins, the same ones which run along my     mother’s thin hands. The blood inside pumps, thick with vengeance, thick with the     sadness that I try to escape from. I fail. It lies     deep in my connective tissue. Indigo lines connect to my heart, connect me to     her.

The sky is aquamarine, with cotton clouds that float     effortlessly. I try to look up, but the sun blinds my eyes. As a     kid, I tried to look at the sun for as long as I could     stand. I was amazed by the fire, the light, the     burn. The heat warmed my     chilled bones.

Somewhere,     Lil is looking up at the same     sky and looking down at these same     veins.

Wanderer

Wanderer. I dream of parallel places, things, realities, I daydream into the night. If I am not here, with you, I am somewhere else, alone. You become fuzz, like the static channel on the TV. I picture that, not this. Hope for a better future, past, present. Wanderer. The grass is greener when my face is. Have you ever felt like a color? I always thought you’d be blue. Wondering what happened to your smile, I dream of lush gardens with plants for teeth. You are there, somewhere. Wanderer. I don’t know where I am, but I know you are here. I feel the stubble of your chin, the freckle on your nose, the warmth of your face, your blue blood. We are here, eating leaves, ever so careful not to pick sweet fruit. 

Ink and Fire

There’s a poet using the same words as me. Stars are the fireworks that get us going. My predecessors scribble with my hands and paper is on fire. Black ink only. We read ourselves in the reflection. Telepathy. The ancestors speak to me through poetry and love. Whisper. Hear them through the trees. I am the line between two poets, connecting in the midnight sky. We weave together the words in which this life is written. The page is hot and angry. It weeps for me. I wipe tears and ink smudges into oblivion. What did it say? It glimmers into nothing like the stars. My mind forgets where it came from.

At night, hands remember when they grab the pen. I write in flames again.

I was Seven When She Loved Me

My mother sits outside with our neighbor, drinking red wine, mingling with the starry sky. I run, barefoot and fast, into the night. She is at ease while we live in Sayreville. I’m not sure if it’s the wine or the sound of the cicadas. In the summer, my mother is free. As am I, being a child, playing with the earth. 

Years later, we become shackled. Far apart, but stuck together with tree sap. 

We had peach tree in the yard. I remember thinking about how small it was compared to other trees. My two year old Boxer, Sidd, circled around the tree. A whirlpool of force and breath. His harvesting ritual. He would grab one with his slobbering mouth as he ran around and around, eventually sinking into the grass to eat it. I watched him and laughed with delight. My dog loved to eat juicy, fuzzy peaches.

Then my mother would walk out back, see him on the ground, chewing away. “Sidd!” she yelled. “No!!” as she ripped the peach from his mouth. He looked up with his tail between his legs.

His sad eyes seemed so familiar.

Nothing

Nothing is everything. Nothing is the burden weighing heavy on your shoulders, the one you always shake off. It’s the last drop of the juice box when you throw it away. Nothing is the three pages you’ve written and not edited, the off-key melody you just created for that song you’ve been working on. It’s the mixture of colors splattered perfectly onto your easel.

Nothing is the lie you tell when you’re doing something suspicious, the secrets you hide from everyone but yourself. Nothing is the air we breathe, the force of gravity that sets us in place upon the earth, the molecules that are naked to the human eye. Effortlessness. It’s the surprise you’re hiding from a loved one, the gift you went out of your way to buy, the favor you did for someone who thanks you unconditionally.

Nothing is what the dog licks off your plate, what you feed him under the table. It’s what you said to your mother when she caught you acting up, what you tell your father when he asks what you’re getting yourself into. Nothing is what you had in your wallet when the homeless man asked you for change, what you see when you walk past him.

It’s what you feel when you close your eyes. Nothing is how much you’ve had to drink when you get pulled over by the police, what you were doing wrong in the first place. It’s what you saw in your rear view mirror, what you saw happen when you caught your wife cheating. Nothing is what you may feel you are sometimes. It’s what you think of when you lay down at night to go to sleep. It’s everything.

Nothing is always something.

Namaste.

We are all connected. Divine spirits, separated by bodies. Souls searching for each other through the wilderness of Earth, the struggle and concept of time. Look for me. Find my inner peace; find my inner light. Become one with my spirit. Taste my soul. Indulge in the colors of my aura, which blend with yours. Feed off my energy and let it bounce of the walls of our skin. See me, through you. Interconnect. Recognize the divine within each other, the light between our souls. We are the same. We are one.

Jacob and the Dogs (100 word snippet)

“Fuck the system” is what I read on the stall door as I close it behind me. I’m squatting over the toilet, staring at the oddly masculine handwriting, wondering if this bathroom was once co-ed. Or maybe this chick just wrote like a guy. I flush and head toward the mirror to examine my face. I re-apply my deep red lipstick and smack my lips together.

Goosebumps run up and down my spine as my heels click out of the bar and into the street. A March night and there’s still a chill in the air. Every man who passes by me on the street stares at me like a savage. Like a dog. Salivating. Ready to eat me.

I quicken my pace and my peacoat swings back and forth at my knees. I examine the lights from the stores in the village. Porn. Porn. Naked girls. A smoke shop. Chinese food. More porn. Neon pinks and blues. Flickering and fading with the wind. Open for business.

I turn the corner swiftly and make my way up the stairs of our apartment. When I open the door, Jacob is sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, sexy.” is what my best friend’s boyfriend says to me when she’s not in the room.

“Fuck the system” reads his shirt in white letters. I laugh.