after leila chatti

No birds. No stars. No one remembering how they’re

dead but how brilliant they are. No one saying that

the sun’s just another star, no shaping it in the face of

a lover long lost. No more other realities. No more other lives.

The truth is that we get this one and then we blow it

before we ever had the chance. Again, no birds. No more

metaphors about how they’re flying and how they’re free.

I can’t stand being so full of envy anymore. No more you.

Who in God’s name is the you, ever, anyways? This poem

isn’t for you. I want it to be for me. I want to be selfish in

a piece for once. I’m so tired nowadays. There are no

bird wings or Greek muses that could change that. I’m scared,

and it is not poetic. There is no rebirth that makes this better.

It doesn’t matter that we see the same moon at night, or

the fact that you can pretend I’m the lover stuck in it. I’m just

angry all the time that it saw you first. Would you still love me

if you didn’t have to. If I didn’t say that you’re the one in some

flash fiction piece where you save me. Would you still love me if

you knew how hopeless I was. I said this poem wasn’t for you, but

maybe I’m just angry all the time that you can only appear in stanzas,

anyways. I will make no euphemisms. I am hurt and alone.

The squeaking of a car’s wheels,

On the slippery road,

The last whine of a pet in pain,

Another one lost to foolish drivers,

A lab,

A best friend,

A sister,

Hips smashed,

Side ripped open,

Looking into your eyes,

Telling you they couldn't stay,

Dream foretold,

But yelling did not help.

Same with the Cottentail,

He was loved,

Cared,

And kind,

Woke to find him missing,

A scrap of bloody fur in the woods,

Two weeks later,

A pile of fur found,

No bones,

Laying under a trash bag,

I wondered if it was a cat,

But now I'm thinking,

What if it was some hungry tramp?

Roundtable Wednesday is back and this time we are starting it off with someone I have known on Prose a few years. She originally hails from Zambia, Africa and now a student here in the states.

For those of you who know her, you know the type of Proser she is; constantly on your doorstep awaiting what you write with a seemingly endless hunger to read what is put forth.

For those of you who know of her, then you know (or should know) she has a huge heart and is very supportive to new writer’s and also to the seasoned veterans on Prose.

For those who do not know her, this is your opportunity, and take this advice—get to know her, you cannot find a better friend, mentor, or supporter anywhere else on Prose.

With that said … I introduce to you: Mnezz.

*****

Can you shed some light about yourself that other people here can get a feel for who you are?

I am an international student, from Zambia, currently studying at the University of Arkansas. I am studying TESOL (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages). My Dad works in the family timber industry, and my Mother is a pharmacist. I have two younger siblings. My young sister (who is two years younger than me) is an accountant and our little brother, who is not so little any more, will be in the tenth grade this year. I love singing karaoke virtually with my sis. My brother loves sharing his stunts like video clips with me. Yeah, he’s quite an athletic Zambian Avenger.

Writer’s write, it’s what we do, but what do you see as your strong point, or motivation to write?

Hmm, let’s see. Ah, the way that stories can go. In my mind, the creator/writer is the director and producer of the work. So, you get to play around with different styles/techniques and create something that is kind of new, or share a part of your own story with others. This can also be worked with by introducing characters that are from various places, and cultures, too. My motivation when writing a story is the call for something that is full of magic, adventure, mystery, and some action. I guess for me my strong point in writing covers a mix of ingredients...almost like baking in a way… haha. You got to enjoy it, and have fun with storytelling!

The very first thing you ever wrote, if you remember it, how did it come about?

Eh, I went over this one with my sister. I believe it was at Kasamu school in fifth grade where I started to really tell and write stories. The one that still sits in my mind today is the story of a group of men storming in our home, and my Dad had to use his own guns to protect us from the bad men. This story was probably based on a dream I had. I always wonder if I need to keep a dream journal, but later forget. Maybe, I’ll have to start a dream blog or site instead—hehe.

Who are your favorite authors and please; give us a few names?

Ooooh, My Favorite Authors are (so many great authors for sure, including some phenomenal illustrators who have written works, too). They are Chinua Achebe, Octavia E. Butler, Stephanie Powell Watts, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Mukuka Chipanta, Rupi Kaur, J.R.R.Tolkien, Stephen Edwin King, R.L.Stine, Bram Stoker, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Junot Diaz, Andrea Davis Pinkney, Edgar Allan Poe, John Rocco, Roald Dahl, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Brandon Sanderson, Neil Gaiman, and Lewis Carroll.

Any favorite songs/artists you listen to that set a tone for you when writing?

Yes. Music is in my soul—it beats like a drum. Okay, here are my favorite songs/artists that I listen to. They do set the tone for when I start writing a poem, or write a tale.

My Top Favorites are:

Pompi (The African Eagle) and Magg44

Chef187

Macky2

The Score (Rock band)

Jonathan David Bellion

Enrique Iglesias

Celine Dion

Hans Zimmer

Andrea Bocelli

Ed Sheeran

Towela Kaira

Harry Styles

Rihanna

Avicii

Leon Bridges

Elijah Blake

Kanye West

SixTones

Victoria Wezi (HeartSound) Mhone

Zendaya

Sona Jobarteh

Do you have any literary work on tap for publication, or have you been published?

I connected and started writing in a Color Culture Writing Community (not too long ago).

In this community, most of the creative artists are young Zambian and African poets, writers, and creatives. There are some members from other countries, and also located on another continent. Thanks to this group, I worked on a little blog project to share some of my stories. (https://lskwst.blogspot.com/)

I have written a story on Prose—The Monster Hunter. (https://theprose.com/book/1754/monster-hunter)

Then my latest long and still in the works story project is The Shadow Man.

(https://theprose.com/book/2851/do-you-know-the-shadow-man)

Is there any one particular book you have read you would recommend others to read?

The Cutting Season, by Attica Locke. :)

When you aren’t writing, what do you do that pays the bills?

I teach, tutor, babysit, and also just started working on doing voice recordings for African stories (currently working on a project for this season).

Why did you join Prose and how long have you been a Proser?

I joined Prose to learn more about creative writing, and to be part of an international/global writing community. It is awesome to get to read stories from so many diverse and awesome writers here on Prose. Eh, if my memory is right, I have been a Proser for more than three years.

When you hear the term “less is more” … what is the first thing that comes to mind?

“Less is more” that makes me think of cooking, mmmm. In terms of creating a meal, any meal, the less ingredients you use than adding so much more, the better. This can be used in telling a story. With young students/learners, “less is more” in terms of teaching that reminds me of making the lessons not too long- my mentor teacher advised me it’s best to keep the content short, and sweet- that way you get much more bang for your buck.

Are there places as far as social media accounts, perhaps your own website you would like Proser’s to be aware of where you can be found?

Yes, here is the link- (https://www.instagram.com/versestudy/)

Favorite hobbies?

My favorite hobbies are drawing, painting, singing, writing, reading, and traveling.

What is the single most thing you like?

Learning a new dance.

What one thing do you really dislike?

Applying for a job posting and not being offered the position.

(One closed door is not going to stop me from trying the window...or chimney ….bahaha).

With Covid surrounding us, what advice would you want to share with people?

Do not lose hope, keep in touch with family, and friends. Find time to do things you love, with others, even through a virtual gathering/meet, and share more fun activities to do together, say dancing, karaoke, write poetry or stories as a group, DIY crafts, like making soap, or candles, etc.

If you could offer up one piece of advice for other writer’s, what would it be?

Let your own adventures be a guide in your story, or poetry. Share an experience you had with others, and do not let submission rejections for publications make you stop writing. Use that as a fuel to keep your stories going on, and remember to also do research and if you do not know something—ask (a piece of amazing wisdom I have learned from Danceinsilence heheh).

Lastly, your favorite quote?

“Curious that we spend more time congratulating people who have succeeded

than encouraging people who have not”—Neal DeGrasse Tyson.

***************

Thank ye kindly for being Roundtable’s featured guest. It was a great pleasure to have you be a part of this.

***************

Here now is something Mnezz has written. And like all those chosen for this, they, nor Mnezz knew which piece I would choose.

Doux Rêve

Fingers bending golden sand

Being stares at the card in his hand

Someone’s ready to hit the hay

They bend on their knees to pray

He sighs, and shakes his head

This one would soon be dead

But as the lad heads to dreamland

He would send a wave of golden sand

That will give the lad pleasant dreams

And not a time filled with screams!

** Doux Rêve is French for Sweet Dream

She made me feel something different. Everyone says you can’t explain it, and you can’t, and yet it seems like we always do. Or at least we try to. I have had time to reflect on it, reflect on my feelings, and I have fallen into a pit that I feel like I can’t get out of. A pit that keeps getting deeper, and the only steps out are writing. Everything else flops, it slides, falls deeper and deeper. The feeling I want to find again wasn’t love. Or at least I don’t think it was. It wasn’t infatuation with her. It was something else. Can’t explain anything now, ever since I started writing it all comes back to her. Her. Her. Every character has her personality written all over it. And I want to write about just her, not something with her essence in it, but I can’t. It makes me sick to the stomach thinking about that again. I have tried, and when I was in the feeling, it felt magical, invincible, undefeated. And when I got out, everything kept hammering me, and hammering, and digging deeper, and pushing me further down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down.

I couldn’t get up, and I still can’t, the only steps I see are writing, but they are hard to build. Everything else crumbles. Why is it that writing and stories is the thing that the world revolves around. Religion is based on ancient writings most of the time. Knowledge and history is discovered from texts, so why is it so hard, when you have a feeling, we can’t describe it. I want to describe it, down to the most miniscule detail, but it slips as I’m about to put it down.

She made me feel different. I can’t explain it. But I need it back.

National Parfait Day

Shopping Reminder Day

National Jukebox Day

Blasé Day

At last! Some of these I can sink my teeth into! And I know which one I want to start with first.

But first, since today is National Shopping Reminder Day, I made a list of things to get me: Chacko_Stephen: A photo of the Taj Mahal – GLD: Nothing fancy, just a Corvette, say 1964 – ValiantRaptor47: A First Edition of The Rise and Fall of Rome – Voiden_Killer: Any classic CD that comes to mind – Mnezz: Some of your leftover turkey – QuietSilence: Send me some noise – Clarity: Send me something I can see thru, like glasses maybe – chainedinshadow: How about a pair of 14k gold chains that I can hang around my neck. Everone and anyone else ... just send money!

Okay, that takes care of the reminding, now on to other things.

Blasé Day

Blase' Day (bla-say) is observed annually on November 25. This unique observance gives us permission to be blase' toward just about anything. Of French origin meaning to be indifferent or bored with life, unimpressed, or as if from an excess of worldly pleasures.

And did you know: In Latin - Baby Names: the meaning of the name Blase is: One who stutters. So for all those that plan on having kids, please don’t name your child this. He or she could grow up to be another Joe Biden.

National Jukebox Day

Jukeboxes have always been an American pastime. When you think of jukeboxes, most people think of the 50’s, when the greasers and cheerleaders would gather around and play their favorite songs in a diner. However, if you think jukeboxes have died, they haven’t.

Since then, they modernized and changed significantly to the touch of convenience, where smartphones have dominated the music industry. If you think all there is left of public music is dance club and DJ’s, well think again. Jukeboxes are still around and grooving with life. So let’s go explore the pastime of jukeboxes.

The term jukebox was coined from the term ‘juke houses’ or ‘jook joints’, which were establishments in the early 1900s where people gather to drink and listen to music. The first jukebox was invented in 1889 when Louis Glass and William S. Arnold created the first coin-operated player.

From the 1930s to the late 1970s, jukeboxes soared in demand and went through many radical changes. However, it wasn’t until 2010 when Touch-Tunes, a music corporation that revolutionized the vintage jukebox with touch screens and mobile apps that interact with a person’s library.

Touch-Tunes then proclaimed Jukebox Day as a national holiday in 2017 and since then has made a Touch-Tunes Jukebox sweepstake that allows a person to share their jukebox memories and play songs through their app to win prizes.

They founded this day as a day to celebrate the classical jukebox and the memories it evokes for people of all ages. This day also falls on the day that the first jukebox was invented, and since it occurs on the day before Thanksgiving, it happens to be when people travel to bars and restaurants to listen to their favorite music.

National Parfait Day

Forgive me for being little technical here.

Parfait (/pɑːrˈfeɪ/, also UK: /ˈpɑːrfeɪ/, French: [paʁfɛ] ( listen); meaning "perfect") describes two types of dessert. In France, where the dish originated, parfait is made by boiling cream, egg, sugar, and syrup to create a custard-like puree which is sometimes served in a parfait glass.

This was first created in 1715 by Sybilla Masters, who was the first American granted an English Patent, so yeah, it’s over 300 years old in the making.

In the United States, most restaurants and ice cream shops serve parfaits in the traditional French style. They use ingredients such as parfait cream, ice cream, gelato, or pudding and layer them in a tall clear glass. To finish the parfait, a dollop of whipped cream is added or even fresh fruit or a drizzle of flavored liqueur.

The Northern United States expanded on the parfait and began to use yogurt layered with nuts or granola or fresh fruits. Some of the fruits include but are not limited to strawberries, blueberries, bananas, or peaches. The idea spread quickly across all parts of the country, and the yogurt parfait gained popularity as a breakfast item.

More strange holidays are coming!

Chapter 42

“Fe”... he called me Fe.”

For the first time since he lost Faith and Jacob, he’d had a torture free memory. When Jacob called him by his nickname, it had always made Felix’s heart smile. That sweet dose of familiarity was one of those things Felix missed intensely.

He and Jacob had suffered incessant secrecy. A strong couple supports one another fiercely at all costs, but in a world of intolerance, the work never ends. The persistent loss of humanity as the world swirled in hatred and fear, was ultimately what lead to the loss of their lives as well.

He and Jacob were separated by the war. He never knew if Jake had survived or if they’d ever find one another in the broken sad world that was left for them at the hands of the “leaders” who’d perpetuated all of the devastations.

Felix dreamed every night of Faith. He dreamed night and day about Jake and the loss of his unrequited love for him.

He woke so many times in a cold sweat in the night, startled by beautiful dreams of his Faith. He was mostly startled because she always spoke to him and as he woke he looked around for her. Sometimes he wished for sleep. Sometimes he hoped to stay asleep forever. Not just because he felt he’d lost any reason to live, but also because he was with them when he slept. Dreams were his dark pathway to them. They could dance together again. They could laugh together again, there in the ether.

However, upon waking Fe would slip back into a depression that slowed his heart rate, slowed his pulse, slowed his thoughts or desires to even have them.

He didn’t want to talk about it, about them, about his sadness. He only desired stillness and silence.

When he sat on the edge of the forest, next to the remnants of the garden, he held tight to the deep darkness and its damp underbelly.

Sitting like a school-aged child with his legs “crisscross applesauce,” he closed his eyes and waited. He conjured as he always did. He manipulated his thoughts to create his much needed time with his touchstones. It didn’t always work when he was awake, but he was quite determined. This day he had something to say. He had something he must ask them.

Please, please come...I need you Faith...I need you Jake.

He had a plan in place. For some reason, he was convinced that without their approval, it might not go as planned. In his mind’s eye they came. Peering at him through the pink light that slipped faintly through his closed eyelids. He tried to communicate to them his desires. Faith, angry with him, turned away and slipped from his thought’s touch. Jake stared clearly through the sparkling waves between them, imploring him silently to stay.

“Fe...please don’t. You’re needed. It’s not your time.”

Felix dismissed Jake’s request. He wouldn’t be happy or content ever again. It was time to just let go and quit resisting the urge that everything would be okay—because it wasn’t. Now, he was ready. Ready to take the journey. Being well prepared, organized, and planned out was one of Felix’s fortes. He finally made the decision their approval wasn’t necessary. He was doing this for his parents for Faith, and for Jake. Then and only then would he be truly happy.

Faith had transplanted a small castor bean tree to the garden. This plant had many benefits but also a poisonous attribute. Faith knew it had been used as medicine for centuries. The seeds without the hull are used for birth control, constipation, leprosy, and syphilis. Castor oil is a laxative and can be used to start labor, and to start the flow of breast milk. She was so glad to have a plant with multiple uses. However, the hull contains ricin. If chewed they can cause acute and potentially fatal gastroenteritis. Felix had saved a handful of the seeds with the hulls intact.

Laying on his back with the dappled light like freckles upon the earth, he felt and heard the slow, languorous breezes tickle the leaves on high. The branches danced and shook their little ribbons of green to the beat of the wind. While he enjoyed Earth’s music, he put the first seed in his mouth and started to chew. He took all six that he had. He lay still and waited.

*****

Faith missed her garden. She missed her brother. She came back to take him with her. This wasn’t how she wanted things to be, but he’d found a way. Now it was her turn to help him and be his guide. She nudged him from his permanent earthly sleep to rise and follow her back to Momma and Daddy and the rest of their family and to Jake. He looked at her and smiled with great relief. He wanted to hear Momma and Faithy reading The Giving Tree again so that Jake could hear what he’d told him so many times.

“I wish that I could give you something... but I have nothing left. I am an old stump. I am sorry...”

“I don’t need very much now,” said the boy, “just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired.”

“Well,” said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could,

“well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting. Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.”

And the boy did.

And the tree was happy.”

― Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree

Written By:

Firstborn60

Zosime was bored. She had been sitting in class all day, doodling while barely listening to the teacher droning on about molecules and whatnot. She looked down at her paper and frowned. She had been absentmindedly been drawing something- a bow and arrow. As she wondered why, the teacher called out ‘’ Miss Zosime Thatcher, please pay attention.’’ Her head snapped up and she muttered a ‘’ yes ma’am’’. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the bell rang. Zosime got up and lazily walked out the door. She walked towards the gate when she hears someone trip and shout behind her. She turned to see who it was- and of course it was her best friend- Ash. Ash was a shy timid girl Zosime had befriended in second grade when she defended her against bullies. Ash was short and chubby, with round glasses and red cheeks. Her braided hair was sticking out, and she looked out of breath. Zosime bent down to help her up. She dusted her checked black and white skirt and said panting ‘’ you could have waited for me! I had to run all the way here! ’’ Zosime just shrugged. She shouldered her backpack and said ‘’ come on, let’s get outta here’’

They walked out the long pointed black gate and made their way towards Zosime’s new black motorcycle. Zosime climbed on and started it while Ash climbed behind her. The motorcycle grunted and started. They zoomed past the tall buildings and pulled to a stop at their favorite café- La vista. Ashley went inside and got them a table while Zosime went to the bathroom. She looked at her reflection-and it stared back at her. She had long wavy black hair and stunning hazel eyes with a shot of green. She had pale skin and freckles on her face. It was an odd combination. She loved it.

She went back outside into the café. She saw Ash on a table and went over. ‘’Whatcha having? ‘’ Zosime asked. Ash looked up and frowned, staring at her head. ‘’ Who are you?’’ she asked. ‘’ Uh, I’m your best friend?’’ Zosime said with a confused look. Ash just shook her head and said ‘’ Sorry, but I don’t know you.’’ Zosime grabbed her shoulders and shaked her saying ‘’ Ash, It’s me!’’ Ash slapped her hands away and said ‘’ don’t touch me! I’ll call the police!’’ Zosime looked at her, hurt and ran out of there in tears.

She thought that Ash had gotten tired of having Zosime as a best friend and had decided to ignore her. She settled on the stairs and sniffled. She pulled out her phone and called her mom. Her mom, Sarah, was amazing. She was a philosophical artist, who drew murals all over their house. She was always in tattered jeans and tee, splattered with paint. She smelled of cinnamon and campfire. ‘’Hello?’’ Zosime said shakily. ‘’ Hi! Who’s this?’’ her mom replies. Eyes wide, Zosime nervously chuckles and says ‘’ Um mom? It’s me, your daughter’’. Sarah replies ‘’ Look, I’m sorry child, but I don’t have a daughter. You must have called the wrong number.’’ Zosime’s phone falls from her hand. Her eyes wide and panicking, hands shaking, she sits down, shocked. No one remembers me, she thinks. No one knows me. I’m alone. What happened?

She takes her head in her hands, and tries to recollect everything that happened today. She still couldn’t think of what had gone wrong. She got up and went over to her bike. She climbed on, started the engine and zoomed off to god knows where. A drive always helped her clear her head. Tears were still stinging her eyes, trickling down the side of her face. The wind was harsh against her pale skin, goosebumps erupting. Suddenly, the hairs at the back of her head stood up and a shiver went down her spine. Something was wrong, and she could feel it. And then she saw it. The monster was at least 10 feet tall. It had a scaly green hide, hairy arms and legs. It was wearing – trousers? It had bloodshot red eyes. And Zosime was its target. She was in shock, but recovered quickly enough to scramble out of the way as the monster lunged at it.It growled in frustration and changed its direction. Suddenly, someone threw something at Zosime and miraculously, she caught it. It was a sword. It was made of some unique glowing metal, and had some drawings carved on it. And as she held it, she felt a spark in her belly which quickly erupted into a fire. She felt it in her bones, burning deep within. She felt unstoppable, the epitome of fierce energy. It was like she was on fire and would burn everything in her path. She was enveloped in a fiery halo, floating about the ground. Her hair was flying and her eyes were a bright fiery color. She screamed and lunged at the monster, slicing it in half at one try. She came down and dropped the sword and as quickly as the energy came, it went. The fire seeped out of her until it was smoldered, and she felt the energy leave her bones. She was tired, weak, and barely conscious. And as she slipped away, she saw an angel like face above her, taking her flying.

She woke up feeling like she was floating. The bed she was lying on was soft as cotton, like a cloud. The sheets were satin and velvety. The bed was pushed to the corner, a cupboard on the other side. A window was above her, light seeping through. The rest of the room was empty. Zosime felt well rested, like she had been asleep for a long time. Then, the angel came over. Well, the guy with the angel face looked at her and beamed. He was very hot, with a jawline sharp as a knife, tousled platinum blond hair and electric blue eyes. He was lean and tall, his button up blue shirt stretching across his taunt muscles. Zosime was sure she was drooling . ‘’Hey! You’re awake’’ he said. Zosime said, with panicking eyes ‘’ what the hell happened!? There was a monster a-and a sword and I was flying and killed it and -what is this? W-where am I?’’ He blinked and with a face of realization said ‘’ Oh! Right. You don’t know. So this is a long story. Basically, you are an angel warrior. You never knew your father, did you? That’s because he is an angel. Your mother is human, and with blood of 2 great lineages, you are the most powerful angel warrior. The sword you used? That was the sword that was gifted to the most powerful human king by the first and also most powerful angel king. It only works for the chosen warrior – an angel warrior, daughter or the king angel, and his chosen bride, who gets the power that 100 men do not possess. You are special, for you are the ancestor of the most powerful angel and human king. The sword? It was gifted from your angel ancestor to your human ancestor. And you will be the key to winning this war.’’ Zosime went wide eyed, shaking. ‘’ What do you mean? The most powerful warrior? I don’t know how to fight. I am the daughter of an ANGEL KING? A PRINCESS? A CHOSEN WARRIOR? HOW! Look, I have no idea how the sword worked for me, but it clearly made a mistake. Please just take me back and help everyone remember me.’’ Angel guy looked at her with sympathy in his eyes and said ‘’ Look, the sword made no mistake. You ARE the chosen warrior of two great lineages, and you ARE going to win the war. We will train you; help you become who you are meant to be. But you can forget our old life. After all, everyone forgot about you for a reason. This is where you belong.’’ Zosime just sat there, processing. Finally, she looked and angel guy and asked ‘’ By the way, what’s your name?’’ Angel guy smiled ,with a dimple on one cheek ,and replied ‘’ Xavier.’’ And as Xavier walked out the room, Zosime burst into tears.

Hello,I am shayna,a 13 year old student.Genre is fantasy .it is for 10+ age. It is of 1390 words.

your lack of culture astounds me; tell me Lily, i know,

you have your own wounds carved from the childhood

that strangled you, but why do you scrap the border

of my reality under the manicured nails you keep blood

red, regularly. Lily, mother, honey (i think it was you called

me), you told me i was too literal but you’ve yet to read

a damn ounce of my poetry. it’s ’cause of you i’ve decided

that the lines on my hands are destinies i’ll never reach;

because you keep pulling the fantasies and dreams like a rope

around my neck; so Lily, why can’t i be free to breathe easy?

i refuse to draw the line of balance; don’t you know impurity

is a balance of these times i’ve decided to call modern art? no,

Lily, you’re naive, blind too it seems; cause my skin’s the color

grey and i painted it out of metaphorical meaning. so please,

stop preaching your false religion as though it’ll save me from

becoming my own somebody; 10 years they’ll call me a writer,

even if, Lily, right now you don’t even know i crafted a soul

out of writing words and typing the bold things i’d never speak.

yes, Lily, you’re right about my bravery; it crumbles when

you’re within feet of me.