"and i don't want your pity, i just / want somebody near me,

guess i'm a coward, i just /

wanna feel alright."

--nobody by mitski.

today, i do not know who i am. today, i cannot

tell heartbreak from my own left hand. i have no

body to tell me if i'm doing this right, cutting you

out ever so gently and not being surprised

that you don't notice. makes me wonder if i was ever home

at all. your words just made things worse, but it's the thought

that counts, right? maybe it's a good thing i have no

body to ask if it hurts.

i didn't want to make a big show out of things, i just

wanted someone to care. hold me by the face and tell me

i was real. push a little bit beyond the cold formality of

how you usually freaking tell an unstable person what you

think they need to hear, because i thought we were more

intertwined than that. but in the end, who do we have?

maybe i'll stitch us back.

but back then, you made me feel like i had no

body. nobody at all.

communication is key:

-if you can't speak to me about your dreams, i guess we aren't meant to be.

-the second you sigh at an eternity with me, you should leave; don't waste time fooling my heart everything'll be alright

-don't stay with me if you promise another a forever

-when you're heart bleeds for another from the soul you let wander, don't lie to me just to see if it was an accident or a meant to be

Sequins, sparkles, a bold rouge lip. The sultry wisps of a time that was never hers, embraced by freedom, elegance, culture and expressionism. She could see it before her eyes, black, white and gold, dripping in decadence. However, it seemed more like a dream, allowing the real world to fade away. It was a renaissance of the soul, and in this time of petaling pleasures, she longed to be in a world she could finally be a part of. 

What was it? Was it the dancing? The flashing lights? The parties which raged until late hours? Or maybe it was the poetry, the literature, and the gilded promise of something better. She swore she lived through it, that her soul had been there once before. She had played Jazz in a smoky speakeasy and she had heard the melodious prose of Langston Hughes. It was ingrained in her very soul, tugging at the strings of fate, longing for the clock to reverse. She felt the inexplicable urge to walk down the streets of New York City, in her flapper dress down to her crystalline black heels. To feel the wind carry the feeling of brimming industrialism and progress. To feel the innovation and excitement as it burned through her veins. Even within the depth of the great depression looming at the horizon, the lively and exuberant culture could not be slowed down. She dreamed because she was tired of the clubs and the lack of respect, tired of all the problems and all her chains. Tonight was her night, the biggest gala in town, and the theme: the roaring 20’s. Smiling to herself, she sat in front of the ivory vanity, placing her cosmetics on the table and getting lost in the hopes of what tonight could be. She dreamed of the rain, not the dance in the rain sort of rain but rather the downpour rain. The kind which makes it impossible to see, vieling the ugliness of the world and washing away the troubles of yesterday. It would be dark, a velvet night, the world filled in hopes of seeing the moonlight once the clouds should break. Maybe, deep within the party hall, the pitter patter of the rain would merely be a faint reminder that there was a world which existed outside of the confines of the idyllic scene. Would there be wind? Carrying the promises of tomorrow with the faint remembrance of the past. It would embrace her with its cool kisses and within a moment it would blow away and forget about that which it touched. Maybe the wind would sing, quietly as it moved and with the melody she would swing, tracing the dance floor, lost in the sea of poeple without a care. To be amongst the dreamers who never left the clouds or the innovation who paved the way for the future, and best of all, the writers, poets and the artist, who strive to express things which no one else could articulate. She could almost taste the hazy, crystal, gold drinks and their bubbles bouncing in her mouth. Like Alice in wonderland and that would be her potion, transporting her to a time beyond her own. Oh, how she longed for a time like that, to live in a simpler time yet a time of change and revolution. For she felt as if she could not fit in anywhere, whether it be with those of her own age or in the stories she claimed as her own. She lived in the aftermath of the time and watched the world become littered with those who thought they were eternal. She had an old soul and her story was etched in black and white, a timeless piece which allowed the facade she put up for the world to fade. Maybe she found that even in a time filled with extravagance, she understood that everyone feigned happiness to some extent, and that’s what made her feel like she belonged in the imperfect, yet picturesque era, that even with the happiness, there was something somber but that would be okay. 

Finally, she placed the gold trimmed and crystal embedded jewelry box in front of her. Running her fingers over the smooth, textured white wood, she picked up the box and winded the delicate, gold knob at the bottom. Slowly, sound ascending, soft music began to echo from the box. It played a tune with an airy piano and a faint lingering of a violin. It seemed to set the scene as she reached into the box, her fingers brushing over the soft, red velvet interior. When she looked into the velveteen box, the memories unfurled around her, reminding her of a lost time. A young girl who waltzed into parties and lit up the room with her glistening smile. To say she was the life of the party was an understatement, she was the heart and soul of the party. Looking away from the trace of the red cloth she only hoped she could dazzle the party as brilliantly as her grandmother had. Her ruby lips parted into a smile as she pulled out the staggering and utterly breathtaking set of gleaming, moon white pearls. She held them carefully in the air, a set of earrings and a necklace, worn in the very time she so wished to belong to. It was a piece of authenticity, the only one that truly deserved a place in an event so true to the past. Once she looked in the mirror, sure of her reflection, she opened the drawer of the vanity and pulled out an old book.

She picked up the novel, and when her hands, black nails and delicate fingers, danced through the pages she found herself at peace. There was nothing more refreshing yet agonizing than reading it, and as F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.” and that she was.

#writing #essays #creativefiction #contest

I just wanted express my gratitude.

Six years ago, I lost my confidence. No matter how many times I tried to recapture it, it constantly eluded me.

Then I found this site and, by extension, writing colleagues who - maybe unknowingly, maybe not - reignited the passion I thought life had drained from me.

These past three weeks have been a reawakening and I have thoroughly enjoyed playing with words again, crafting new characters, accepting your challenges; a return to joy and imaginative abandon.

To everyone who has commented, liked, reposted and/or followed, and to everyone who inspires me to do the same, a mere "thank you" does not seem enough.

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.

Bastard they are called me,

and they have forcefully punished me;

very hurt, desolate, all broken

I have been buried under his feet.

Narrow Anima , heart of dry almond,

the sky has turned over for no reason;

darkness of icicles under the field,

I want revenge with tender words.

Push my body already worthless,

when there is no longer the sigh of any mention;

baptize it into pure fertilizer, engulf my element and upkeep my origin,

make fun without trouble who your fruit dares to trample.

Pact coming to its course, coppery and green,

the rhizome invigorates, realizes plot to spare and scatter; my ends widen become hardened, the tissue is broken telling my story;

lipid, protid and starch sprouts from the nucleus.

Chunky trunk, jungle skein of recent fruit, my wounds the wind were exposed; fresh annex that I exhibit intuition,

to grow is to live and live is to suffer; without any of them we can exist.

Love breaks the substance and with it we practice to rest under water,

to surrow without a band, raze fortresses of sábula and vice versa;

with him we only learn to annihilate, to kill the feeling, the same one that I buried and to a soul I entrusted my skin and the cycle of life made me decipher.

Chimera of igneous coal, to these barbarian beings, I, to their offspring, give chewing;

I also give them shelter,

to sprout a source of experience, and that fruits on their heads may fall and wisdom can enter into them.