Sea salt and missing girls

They won’t miss us, she promised hurriedly

While we climbed the highest rocks and played as gods

We declared the ocean our playground and the beach our domain

She said we’d fly far away from here

We’d fly so high, she told me, the immortals on Olympus would envy us

But we failed to learn from Icarus

His sacrifice was in vain

Her toes on the edge as I clamored to keep up

Her chin tilted upwards in blatant defiance as if daring Zeus to strike her down

My eyes averted toward the water for just a moment too long

Lavender gossamer clung to olive skin and chocolate tresses covered her face

I was glad for that; I couldn’t bear to see her then, in her last moments

I like to imagine her as she was the night before

She never looked so beautiful

I imagine nobody else thought her much to look at

And as the daughter of a viscount, she wasn’t even a lady, my cousins sneered

Without a dowry, she would have been unremarkable

But a girl like her would never settle for a word like that

So she danced with whomever she pleased but at first, that list didn’t include me

We sat across from each other during dinner

And I could make her smile by sticking my tongue out and crossing my eyes whenever the man sitting next to her turned away

Eventually, we sought each other out in crowded rooms

In three weeks, we were never apart

My grandmother saw us one night in the library when we should’ve been asleep

But she didn’t tell anyone

She told me she used to have a friend like Josephine was to me

But I wanted to tell her that we weren’t friends

Friends didn’t sneak into the other’s room for a moment of repreive from boasts about wealth and status veiled behind almost compliments and offhanded comments

We weren’t friends

But I didn’t know the word for daring, brave girl who didn’t care if our love was unlawful or amoral

Didn’t care about the suitors- not to mention her family- she was letting down by choosing me

Setting her hands on my waist where everyone could see

And maybe if I had been brave like her

I would have found a way to save her

I didn’t know how to say she put the sun in the sky and taught me about the stars

I didn’t know how to say I loved her

We didn’t talk about the love letters

We didn’t think about forever

We thought we were entitled to a lifetime together

She didn’t know how to keep a secret, not like me

So by the time luncheon concluded on the first day of our final week together

Her maid had found the letters strewn across her quilt that she had been reading and forgot to put away

The library was silent as she and I sat on opposite sides of the room

My father yelled and so did hers

Our mothers had been left in the dark because as they insisted, “The women should not have to witness the shame of their daughters.”

Of course, my mother found out, and she wasn’t angry

At me, but she blamed my father for inviting “that family” to vacation with us for the summer

To her, a decent status and an overflowing trust fund meant you could do no wrong, but clearly I was proof to the contrary

I didn’t look at Josephine for a long time

I couldn’t bear to see what I had done to the only person who mattered to me

I remembered all those hours of hiding and vacant stares during dances because all we could think of was what the other was doing

I can’t imagine how many toes I stepped on to get closer to her

The time we shared would never be replaced

“We’ll dance like real people do,” she whispered one night when the ballroom was empty

More daring than we’d ever been, we started slowly and quietly

Hesitantly taking a step closer and awkwardly arranging our limbs that didn’t seem to fit anywhere

But it was like magic to waltz in her arms

Never had I danced with anyone without feeling insecure and unworthy, but she made me feel brilliant and confident

Her skirts swirled around mine until we painted the world in pearlescent periwinkle and peach blossom

Before I could whisper I love you

A maid’s stern cough brought us out of our daydream and suddenly, we just schoolchildren, bashful and guilty

Caught in the act of something sinful and wrong

She promised me we were innocent, that we weren’t sick like they said and we didn’t belong in an asylum either

When the roses had begun to shrivel up like unwanted fruit, our parents started making plans to leave

We found ourselves in a place we’d been so many times before

A long dinner of solemn faces had made us anxious

Our “misstep,” as her father called it, had made everyone grim

And everyone knew it was us

Even the servants didn’t look at us the same anymore

They put us at opposite ends of the table, put uncles and cousins and family friends in between us like prison guards

We managed to escape their careful watch outside the drawing room while everyone headed to bed

So beside the wilting rose bushes, outside my parents’ bedroom window, we made a plan

In the garden close to midnight, I panned for gold in the flecks in her hazel eyes

And she promised we’d run away and no one needed to know where

My lace gloves recalled how it felt to caress her cheek a final time at the crest of the cliff

The seafoam unevenly swept across the coastline

And I felt like crying

Because inside I was dying

If we couldn’t be together, I didn’t know how to go on without her

I was naïve enough not to consider that as a possibility

And maybe her father was right and we got what we deserved

Our wings were made of wax and glass, leftover love letters and whispered promises

The sea breeze would only carry us so far

It was foolish to say otherwise

Crumpled like a passed over Valentine, two steps from being washed away with the tide, broken and defeated, was not how I wanted to remember her

We’re not heroes

Or angels or gods or monsters or mermaids or sirens

We’re not dryads or sea nymphs

We’re mortals and we break when we fall

And we all fall eventually

i arrange my bones into a neat pile

and push them across the table to you.

in response you break me in half

like a wishbone. heart first. i laid out knives

but you don’t eat with one tonight. instead you throw it at the wall

and smile with fine china teeth. the house

shudders and moans and cries. house that was already wounded

now a martyr. house that was already haunted

now a ghost. if i stand outside and watch

i can see you through the walls,

frying onions and humming along to joni mitchell. this house does not have heroes.

this house did not prepare itself for war. you raise your voice

and we stumble into battle like inexperienced dancers. house follows.

house can only follow. house listens and reacts. i’m sorry,

but not about the things i said to you. i’m sorry, and i say it

to the ceiling, crying plaster onto my head. be quiet now,

and go to sleep. it’s past midnight. we don’t do tears much here,

but you know that. you know too much. i’m sorry.

My name was originally supposed to be Carla Gabriella Diaz. It’s a good name, and one that I would have liked, but my mother wanted to name me after one of her favorite poets, Gabriella Mistral. If it was my middle name, everyone would call me Carla, not Gabriella. Also, Carla Diaz doesn’t sound as nice. It’s too short, too choppy. Maybe I’m just too picky. Anyways, my mom decided, why not Gabriella Carla? Well, because it sounds weird, that’s why. So I got Gabriella, no middle name, Diaz. I kind of wish I had a middle name. It’s not out of vanity or anything, I just think it would be helpful. You know how many people in this world are called Gabriella Diaz? Too many, that's how many. I’ve met one before, in 9th grade. Her name was spelled with one “L” instead, but it was annoying as all hell. One of my papers got put in her folder and I had a failing grade for a test for weeks because the teacher couldn’t find it.

I don’t think I would ever change my name, but I won’t lie and say it’s not intriguing. I know, logically, that a new name can’t really reinvent you, but if it could, oh if it could. I would like a new name to wear, a nice large hoodie hiding my face and my hands and forty million knick-knacks in the absurdly large pockets. A new name to wear like a concealer over all those ugly marks, pat powder on my cheeks and have a new face to match. I chose a name when I was younger, Anna. It’s the name I put down when I need to fill out something for an add or a coupon or an online quiz. It’s the name I use when I talk to people on the street trying to sell me something, or advertise something, or just being weird and making me super uncomfortable as I walk a little bit faster because why are you talking to me about your photography business and offering to take my picture? Dude, that’s creepy.

Along the same vein, there is the idea that people can look like a certain name. That’s interesting, that people can look or act so similar that we all have a general idea of how the person with that name should act and when the person who acts like a Katlyn isn’t named Katlyn, we recognize it. Or maybe it’s that people in general are so similar that everyone you meet reminds you of someone else. Names are really just noise, no more real than the entire spectrum of language. They are not real things, not tangible. They hold no more importance than what we give them. It worries me, sometimes, that so many things in our society exist because people decided they should exist and made it happen and no one disagreed. One day, someone is going to realize that the world around us is nothing more than a paper-thin veneer of falsality and instead of getting anxious, they are going to wonder. Wonder, “If it isn’t real, should it even really exist?” And then that veneer is going to crumble into sand. What happens, if names lose the value we give them? The idea that names give us a sense of our identity means that without them, we must have less identity. Or maybe no identity at all.

I would like a name to tie to my identity. I already have a name, of course, but it does not have anything to do with my identity, far more with my parent’s. Or, at least my mom. I don’t think I would want to make Anna my name. It’s a very simple name, but it was created as a lie- I would never escape the shadow of its original purpose. I'd want a new name to match with how I feel. Maybe the name Alice. I’m not blond and I don’t have a rabbit, but I am tumbling down a hole anyways. I don’t think I’ve quite hit Wonderland yet, but probably soon.

The world feels a little more like Wonderland every day, but I don’t like it. It’s confusing and the people here are weird. It’s probably not normal to be so lost, so turned around by the world that’s whirling around me, a dizzy blur that burns my eyes. Like the rabbit hole, never any control in either the journey or the destination. I wonder how Alice felt in Wonderland? Was she in awe at their magic? But she must have gotten tired of being bossed around, meeting so many new people who were all summarily unhelpful in her finding her way back to peace, back home. Alice in Wonderland was a puppet on strings, controlled by either fate, fortune, or fear. A name like that would be fitting, I think, although it would be rather dispiriting. It’s not a good feeling, to feel like an Alice.

So, what’s in a name? A rose would smell just as sweet and a person would be the same, no matter the name. Some of the things one chooses, your clothes, your hair, the makeup you wear (or don’t wear) say something about you. But you don’t choose a name, so there is nothing of your choice in it. There is nothing of you in it.

So, what’s in a soul? That’s a different story. There are some people in the world whose names become reflections of their soul, tainted with their deeds. Bad people, mostly, Hitler, Stalin and the like. I met a kid named Fidel once, and felt such pity. No one deserves to be saddled with a name like that. Will it fade in time, the dirtiness of a name? Children named Antoinette are not immediately associated with the French Revolution, nor are the many, many, named after British monarchs. The soul must affect what we remember of a name, how the soul using that name shaped the world.

I don’t think I’d like to be remembered like that, my name co-opted by strangers. Indeed, even naming children after passed loved ones has always seemed morbid to me. Does the soul gain rest, when its name is borrowed? Or does it wake with every mother's call, every childish yell, before falling back once more into the deep silence of the quiet abyss?

Looking at those amber trees

I sense the fragrance of a past

forgotten parchment memory.

Its aroma drools me over

and entagles me about my being

and I'm bamboozled with this thought

whether it's hugging me or strangling me.

I feel loved but I couldn't feel unseized.

Am I free or am I not?

Is it love or is it not?

The dead petals lie on my ground,

unsalted and deserted

And I feel like crying to leave them a loner

for years of my dusty past

when they needed me to...

Oh! Have I realised it now?

What would they need me for?

"May be to caress them and kiss them

Like how the humans do

To the graves of dead."

Said the branches shading me.

In this garden of amber

where I smell lilies and lavenders

and roses and sunflowers

and sense the shadow of outgrown banyan

and eat from its harboured luxury,

feeling like Alice in wonderland

I keep wondering,

Am I free or am I not?

Is it love or is it not?

"What else do I need to satisfy you with?

You are loved when you are favoured,

You are loved when you regret

For the wrongs of your past,

You are loved when you feel like home

around me".

Said the branches shading me.

If only I didn't make them

my parchment memories,

I wouldn't have questioned

Your love over my guilt swollen worth.

If only I decided to let it sleep

On its natural matress

than my deserted island

I wouldn't have asked

'Is it love or is it not? '

But today

I feel guilt free because

I have mourned my heart

for my dead petals and I will lay

them beneath on the matress of its fate;

One day again when the the bronze of the soil whistles about its fertility

I would know they are happy,

The petals are happy and so am I.

There is an art to kissing people with glasses.

It requires practice - particularly if both parties wear glasses - and as such the first time I kiss someone I typically take my glasses off to make it easier. Even if there's no harm in bumping lenses there's still fog, awkward clicking, or the messy skewing of spectacles afterwards.

Since I always seem to initiate first kisses this subtle signal is also an easy way to gauge whether or not my partner is alright with me proceeding aside from straight up asking (have done that also / been asked also). I always wear my glasses, whether reading or otherwise, as I can't handle contact lenses. The only other times they come off is when I'm otherwise undressed anyway, so a kiss before that level of intimacy feels legit.

I've tried a few "blind" dates before where I skipped wearing my glasses in an attempt to come off less "geeky", but it became quickly apparent this tactic failed everytime. I'm geeky with or without the specs; and without the safety blanket of my Clark Kent disguise it's hard to gauge whether I feel fully committed or not. Will you like me when I'm a mild manner reporter, or only if I'm a superhero?

So while the first kiss may be sans specs the rest will require quickly learning how to navigate kissing someone with glasses. Because even if you're the only one who ever gazes into my unframed soul, you're not going to last if you can't figure out how to head tilt at just the right angle to insert yourself into my geekiness.

As i sit on my throne of diamands that i built from a lowly coal mine and allow my curt to talk my ear off i quickly grow impatiant at the babbling on of old fools, no wonder this country was in ruins until i took the throne by force.

“Your highness please we beg of you to reconsider!” They cry out-“For the sake of your nation, you highness.” They plead- “it is for the betterment of the people!” They lie. As if they aren’t begging me not to disband the court to save their own positions.

“Your highness, i approach you with the upmost respect. Havent you heard of the saying 'Don’t call a dog with a whip in your hand'? it means: People don’t listen to an aggressive leader! You will be made out to be an evil dictator if you get rid of us all.” I felt my eyebrow twitch in aggitation.

"I see, well have you heard of the saying ' An army of sheep led by a lion would defeat an army of lions led by a sheep'? it means leadership is most important. What about ' It is better to be by yourself than poorly accompanied.'?" I ask sitting in my chair and taking a sip from the wine of my cup.

"We've worked so hard all these years for-"

" 'If you plant grass, you won’t get rice.' you've worked so hard and yet what have you to show for it? A country in ruins because you've been greedy." I state getting more annoyed by the second. The new empress is known to have quite the temper.

"But your highness-"

" 'Complaining is the weak man’s weapon', i guess it's beffiting of you." A sigh leaves my mouth as i grow tired of this conversation. “Tell me,” I say crossing my legs and looking down at the poor nobles in front of me shaking in their boots.“Why should i keep around a bunch of people who go on and on babling like idiots;pretending as if their actions are for the good of this country, when in reality all they care about is their title? I've decided I do enjoy using these expressions and will thank you for helping me discover a new found joy, but nothing more than that. I shall keep the court-" I say watching the nobles relax a bit "however, none of you shall be on it. Now get out of my sight before i strip yu of even your noble title as well."

Young body

old soul

Inhales cigarette smoke

to puff it out and contemplate the question

“what is reincarnation?”

cigarette goes out

relight it with the flames of the burning city

deep inhales turn to coughs.

tears from more than just the impending lung cancer

a shakey breath drawn as the contrast is admired,

how can the sky be so calm in the midst of chaos?

How lucky the gods are to not be down here,

a smile, a wish, a shake of the head,

and a leap of lacking faith

that begs the second part of the question

“And how do I stop it?”

you once said to me there was a rhythm in the way we peeled ourselves apart; like fruits spoiling in the sun, tearing off each other’s sweet flesh and melting peach into the earth.

in another version we are peeling back our shoulder blades to make room for angel wings. you’re saying come here, my little icarus, the sun is so far away and i am so close, and there is no flight in this sacrifice of ours, anyway, no mythological wonder, we are too godless and small to touch the bird-blue sky.

and they wouldn’t say it like this, but i know we became divine for one moment. it was the second where you were tending to my wounds, rebuilding your little barefoot lover in the white dress, and i was watching the stars turn above the open field, and in the silence i swear i heard the humming of your lawless boy body.

there is one more version of this story, of course, the one where i am clawing at the legs of your ghost in the middle of the night, and i am tearing your bones apart for one last glance at your heart. but you are already gone, darling, there isn’t a thing beating inside of you, just a drum-boy marching down a burning hill, beating out a war song. he is the sacrifice, the showman, all dressed up to die. he looks up into the vast sky of your body

and i am a god for one breath

as he tells me you are long gone.

Division is a diving board

above an Olympic sized swimming pool of unrest.

An engine fueled by fear

propels it up the ladder’s rungs,

and the water in its shoes squelches with each step.

The feet are slick but steady as they climb anyway and

the tension in the crowd is building as they watch The Diver climb

slowly, steady and with great care.

It’s eyes are closed and blind

and the air freezes solid

as it makes it to the top, the decision point.

The world stops breathing momentarily

all eyes on The Diver, what will it do?

At once someone coughs and the whole place just explodes.

Everyone in the room starts talking to themselves at full volume,

forgetting the spectacle before them and

It dives.

It is freefalling, graceful and hilarious at once

with a concussive smacking sound which echoes beyond the room

through the hallways of the rest of the school.

Silence, as the last drops of water from the splashdown drip to the floor

off of the bodies in the crowd.

i meant to come home to you but i got a bit lost,

the snow froze my feet. i am stuck.

i waited for you to find me, for that light in your

mind to miss my flame. i tried to melt the ground

with my love. i wasn’t made for the cold- i long

for sand beneath my skin, salty mist like a cloud

holding me up; but for you i would go miles,

my patroclus, my pelion, my peace.

if i could move i would be with you right now.

if i make it back, will you tell me what i missed?

if you found another or you wish to part i would

not blame you for i left my kindness on the road.

the burden of being is not something i hold freely

if not for snow i would be lounging by the bay.

my lashes are frozen, enclosed in crystal cruelty

and i think i am glad we had time

for if you saw me like this, winter’s harshness on

my lips you would wonder if you ever kissed me there.

i thought i could not bear to be without you,

but in truth it would be worse if your vision of me

was no longer your achilles.