“You’re certainly drinking up a storm.”

Circe looks to her right, as a woman with glossy braids and a blinding grin slides into the barstool besides her. Vaguely, she thinks she should recognize her. But an eternity is a long time, and her memory grows weaker by the century.

“Special day,” Circe says simply, gaze fixed on the rim of her cup.

“Special day,” the woman echoes. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, fixing Circe with a look that’s all too sunny for a first meeting. “What, like your birthday?”

“Sure.” She pauses. “It’s Circe, by the way.”

“I know,” the woman responds easily. Then, she offers, “Calypso.”

See: now there’s some recognition. Vaguely. Maybe somewhere in the deep trenches of Circe’s memories, there’s a name to go with a face with a face to go with a name and that is: Odysseus. And Penelope.

But that’s the name of the one he went back to. No one ever talks about the ones he left behind.

“Like the island nymph,” Circe muses, coyly swirling her glass around as if they don’t know now exactly who the other is. Exactly how long they’ve both lived.

“Aeaea, yes,” Calypso hums, drumming her coral-colored nails on the bar counter. “You’ve been there before.”

She doesn’t say it as a question, and that’s because Circe has been, and Calypso knows. Mostly because she was there with Calypso, chucking coconut husks off the water and cursing out the pantheon.

“We’ve known each other for a while,” Circe relents, and Calypso’s blinding smile turns into something softer. And Circe is awfully bored, so she says, “Are you up for another adventure?”

“Always, love,” Calypso answers, flicking her shorter friend on the shoulder. “It’s a special day, isn’t it? Is it really your birthday?”

Titanesses tend not to know their real birthdays. Circe took a date and assigned it the same value, though. “I’m getting old.”

“If you’re old, then I’m old. And no matter how old you are, I’ll be your old, chatty friend. Upsides to eternity, having an old friend.”

Circe laughs at that. “Well, where are we headed?”

“I dunno, birthday girl,” Circe’s friend, her loyal friend, who she knows has loved her as her sister in arms for so long, who may very well stay by her side until their ichor runs dry, answers, “How does the sunset sound?”

“Running off into the sunset,” Circe smiles, sliding off of the barstool. She holds a hand out to her friend. ”Just like always?”

“Always with you,” Calypso answers. And she takes her hand. “We have forever and a day.”

and a child’s body is like a five figured star, 

splayed across cartoon skies of navy. 

our souls crease, film-thin as spinach leaves,

yellow as the half-eaten crayon on the floor.

soft, we drift across the crinkled skyline 

riding the paper mountains, 

living a multicolored lie. 

we are only as naive as they tell us,

we scratch the rose coating from our eyes

in a curiosity of our world, but realizing

our mistake, we lick it back up like dogs.

becoming increasingly aware of the color

we lose by merely living. it is no tragedy—

just a part of growing up, like hating the

thirteen year old you when you’re fifteen

and missing the three year old you when you’re

fifty.

oh tell me, if we were born with everything

then what is left for us at the end? which

questions are worth asking and which are not?

what is worth risking and what is not? were

you always who you were, just ignorant of it?

or perhaps it is a fact, that we only get more

naive as we get

older?

cling to me, my desperate lover -

i am the last life raft in this sea of ours. i am paper and ink,

creased and trembling in the river running,

crumple the edges of me in your clumsy, youth-stained hands

while i bleed into this water. and i’m starting to think that

the heroes were mostly wrong. that the stories were only stories.

that the darkness is just darkness and the sword is just a sword,

whether you pull it out of a stone or a body. whether it's red paint

or blood. then again, maybe one is noble and the other cruel.

doesn’t matter to the dead man. doesn’t matter to the stone.

our reflections sit on the stones, tumble in the boiling water;

heat upon heat upon heat, like the tasting of stars, the ache,

the promise to learn the earth's tongue and never speak anything else.

the wind swallows our voices. the water swallows our faces. i’ll swallow

the sound of you, and the sight of you, and the sky. beat the world to it,

and all that. this world is a sticky gaping jaw, slick with summer precipitation,

feeding the flowers growing in your lungs. chain smoke these marigolds again,

give the sun something to look at. the sky is in a battle with itself, burning blue

against peach against crimson; be the diversion we need to win this night over.

they'll all be burnt to ashes. we'll be burnt down to teenage bones. who will haunt

the night sky tonight when this is all over? who will cling to the moon half a shadow?

we always wanted to be the stars. this'll have to do, won't it? quick, before we go,

let's bleed life itself. you always wanted to be the world,

but this'll have to do.

I stitched It together in the papyrus of a grimoire; dribbled love upon

Its mangled lips in

sage-and-wax candle tips.

Her waning crescent spoke to me, a seer in the crimson sea, the final nail in the

coffin is this: you will never be what you once were,

not by tears of the stars,

nor bones of the earth,

not so long as It rots on the windowsill, and

you elude evening seances in the cobweb hills, and

forgot that you dreamed of

a home of your own to build.

How do I convince It to stay?

How do I save the very Thing that kept my worst self at bay?

If It asked for my firstborn, a sigil carved in the walls of my womb,

I dare not let these nightmares be freed:

Do I utter to It that all the children that I have left

are held in the mirror, as It itself sees?

What is the use in searching for a Thing that has long since stopped believing in me?

Not all the skeletons moths in the world could restore this bitter milkweed.

but I just ! Wanted to Create ! Wanted to

prove to It that I could Make

something

worth

dreaming

for.

But nowadays,

even the act of staying awake

feels like such a chore.

I suppose I wanted to make something that would Outlive me.

But stuck in the dregs of a cauldron, I never got the opportunity, not

by tears of the stars,

nor bones of the earth.

I know It had gone long ago,

and left me to rot in the dirt.

Say my ancestors were discovered.

Make me memorize it, 

Put it on a test. 

Tell me being mixed is sexy, you forget

it was first forced breeding. 

Teach me high art is naked white women, 

Notice I don’t look like them?

Persist I am lucky to be so tan. 

Call it a glow up. You’re selling a people. 

Is this rebranding?

Say my language is alluring. 

Learn a few words to use at a bar.

Progressive?

Habibi, mami, ebony princess. I find it racist, 

you call it misreading. 

Assume I’m after money, or status, or a green card.

You ask where I was born. Where I went to school.

Probe for an answer. 

Didn’t expect me to one up you? Now I’m disappointing? 

Treat me like an accessory,

Although this is my life; I’m not pretending.

Paraphrase a culture, you’re so good at it.

Wrap me in sticky rice, 

because you’ve made me your happy ending. 

#feminist #poem #feministpoetry #spilledink #bipoc #intersectional #minority #feminism #racism #poetry #culture #poetrybywomen #woman #slantrhyme #youngpoet

nostalgia sticks to the roof of my mouth

my tongue excitedly flaps around chapped lips

sounds of whirring printers and cackling staplers

ring in my ears, i tap my fingers on the desk-

half-chewed fingernails on moth-eaten wood,

unhinged tubelights flicker above

and i wander off to dusty memories

of when i was made of milk-toothed youth

and phosphorus, coiled like a fetus in

porcelain bathtubs filled to the brim

with lukewarm water.

/

stuffy car rides in summers/ sticky fingers/

made of saccharine and/ honey flavoured toffees/

the sun glinted/ through hardened glass windows/

leather seats/ that burned their souls/

plastic waterbottles/ that sang in their watery voices/

air conditioners/ spewed out icy air/

bryan adams/ bled out of the broken radio/

beads of sweat/ crawled through father’s eyebrows/

i wiped my forehead/ with the back of my hand/

moved my tongue gently/ across the rough surface/

of sharp-edged rock candies/ bobbed my head to soft rock/

and it sat there/ hidden beneath seat covers/

packed under bottlenecks/ muffled by lip-syncing lips/

heartbreak/ fleeting childhood/

/

i swiftly move my fingers through reams of paper,

licking the pale fingertips that taste like starch and death.

my mouth dry like sawdust.

i light up a cigarette,

melancholy madness rises up with heavy,

tobacco-laden smoke.

she enters my ribs.

armed with the ghosts of my childhood,

sweeping gently my diaphgram,

sweet death.

she gnaws at my liver, my right lung,

breaks it into swallowable cubes-

death is a woman, always.

/

the air was thick/ with jealousy/

yellow coloured/ school buses/

staggering up slowly to the hills/ to remote cottages/

on overpriced school trips/

the seats were torn at the edges/ they spat out yellow foam/

overweight children/ shuffled out of the metal doors/

stretching their arms/ plastic wrappers crunched under their feet/

we slept in warm camps/ in groups of four/

there was something sad/ about the way she had smiled/

i had loved her then/

the chemical taste of sandwiches/ burned through the air/

warm tomatoes and soggy bread/ mixed with amylase/

naked bodies floated around/ in chlorine-rich pools/

i wanted to drown/

and once again/

beneath piles of woolen clothes/

masked under the smell of tomatoes and chlorine/

there it was/ heartbreak/

i cried myself to sleep/ that night/

no one left school trips/ unscathed/

/

the night is young,

i make my way slowly to the subway,

soft fog looks pretty under

purple neon city lights.

i rub my palms together-

it’s cold outside.

it’s cold inside.

i rub i rub i

rub.

/

sickly smell of soft drinks/ swept through the air/

happy birthday/ the banner said in a happy font/

he blew the striped candles/ drops of saliva/

stuck to the frosting/ it was vanilla/

his mother/ plucked out the candles/

remnants of cake clung themselves/ to the wax/

i would lick them off/ later/

the walls faded/ to a pale yellow/

chairs screeched/ afraid of being dragged around/

i wore a checkered shirt/ red and blue/

wiped my wet hands/ on the soft fabric/

we were served/ cold noodles and warm cake/

i had gulped down the carbohydrates/ shamelessly/

fat thighs burned/ filled to the brim with lactic acid/

the air was moist/ something loomed over us/

mingling with the humidity/ something hideous/

/

i switch on the lights.

the room glows up in yellow illumination,

i wipe my moist eyes with the back of my sleeve-

i have left something behind,

and replaced it with the grief

of unborn memories.

and once again

i sleep through dimesions

and wake up in vibrant thoughts-

i had always hated the dark.

and once again i was floating

through/ faint yellow birthday-walls/

red wax candles/ i loved to lick/

through yellow school buses/ with the pain peeling off of them/

through old pages/ of worn out leather diaries/

through muddy playgrounds/ in monsoons/

falling off bicycles/ on hard concrete roads/

through broken toes/ that bled so crimson/

through cracked lips/ and torn tongues/

the lips had bled/ and i had sucked on them/

i had loved the sicksweet taste/ that reminded me of home/

and yes/

this is home/ this is home/ this is

home/

it tastes like bitterness and sour milk, and you should've known better than to expect otherwise.

you think that bravery is a learned trait. you spent the first years of your life undoing your gag reflex by drinking your own bile, and maybe that is why you've managed to endure everything for so long. maybe that is why it was inevitable.

your esophagus contracts. it is an ugly thing when everything spills out in a sickening squelch, gushing out in a muddy pool. again and again. 

when it ends, you are empty. strangely, you could not have been better. 

you thought it’d be more in your face, but

it feels more peripheral -

your parents don’t yell for you across the house anymore,

your sister has stopped mangling it into nicknames that used to feel like needles under your skin,

you and your family have the kind of almost-ESP that people do when they’re close:

names don’t have to be said, you know exactly who’s talking to who.

so it is easy to forget

[sometimes it is easy to forget the names you have chosen for yourself,

real-life, online, in-between;

they slip between your fingers at times,

and you hover around

unnamed, uncalled]

until it isn’t so easy to forget.

you have to enter it when you’re filling out online forms to be paid,

the process frustrates you [for more than one reason] and you set it aside,

go back to your room and your eyes fall

on a library card,

buried under books and paper birds and Christmas-themed candy.

only the name on it is visible.

you wonder if you’re being taunted.

slip on those rose-tinted sunglasses

a contented sigh drawn from parted lips

as the palm trees dance,

fronds swaying in the breeze

ocean waves melt into milky chocolate

as their rhythm mellows in relaxed ears

and swan-feather clouds float

across the sky, resembling

dreams once forgotten to the night

blink once

the unnerving grip of clenched fingers

scars of skeleton fingernails on soft clay

stumbling, ground whirling like

those carnival rides we overpaid for

head denting the floor as a

heart lies gaping open

call the surgeon in,

chemicals wafting through a broken nose

each inhale is a foothold,

each exhale a hallucination

harsh beam of light flooding

virgin eyes, and the surgeon sets

a rose-tinted world before midnight pupils

soft shivers of joy (relief)

raise trembling fingers to grab

golden metallic frames and push them

up the nosebridge, behind the ears

a flock of ravens sails through cornflower skies,

obsidian coats gleaming in the midday sun

and the gleeful screams of kids

as they bike through grassfields

blink twice

bee-hive sting radiating off of a red cheek

stagger backwards, lips pursed to speak

but still, they remain soundless

unreadable eyes play a deck of emotions

rage, hatred, contempt, pride

as a smirk plays on knowing lips

snatch those rose-tinted sunglasses,

long-hollowed lungs swelling, shrinking

gasp for breath, still the fire within

expectant eyes search for a shining horizon,

but it fades to a husk

watch as the sunglasses dissolve,

countless particles drifting away

whip around, frantically

looking for the world

you once knew

now all that’s left are remnants

#poetry

Dear J,

you will never read this letter. i made sure of that—there’s not one social media platform that we’re both on where i haven’t blocked you yet. and i’ll tell you a secret: i thought about sending something like this to you just so i could at least pretend that you acknowledged i existed. which wouldn’t be fair, of course, because neither of us seem to acknowledge that we knew each other at all, so why should i expect so from you? maybe it’s because i wanted an apology. gosh, that stupid apology. i wanted (past tense) to forgive you. i wanted you to forgive me. and you know the funny thing? neither of us would know exactly what we were (would be?) apologizing for. for nothing? for everything? for the words we said, or for the ones left unsaid? i don’t know. i don’t know. it’s been three years and i still don’t know. but i need to let go.

i lie to myself sometimes and say that i wish i’d never met you in second grade. it’d save me the heartache. it’d save you the heartbreak. (but did your heart break? am i sick for wanting you to hurt just as much as i did?) you hurt me. you hurt me so much. i could handle people thinking that i was the snooty, smart, popular girl back then and you told me every time how good i was but i know that you must think it now. i know you would shame me now. (i don’t know if demonizing you despite not knowing how you are in the present is a way to cope but it works it works it works it works.) you used to spew all that religious stuff (you didn’t look me in the eye when i got fake married to my other two gal friends? it was for pretend and it was all a game but you told me to repent forever and ever and i think that was when i started being angry at what religion could do to me.) and you shamed them and you’d shame me and you did you did you did why did you do it? you were (past tense) my world and you knew it. you were my best friend and we planned to attend the same university together and you knew it you knew how i gave you all of my heart and i still wonder what you gave me in return. i wasn’t the best i know i’ll admit but you knew it you knew it and i wish you’d just admit it. and then there was the incident and then i forgave you but then everything went downhill and i hated you for it but i still loved you all the same.

and then it was radio silence. there was no massive fight between us to end all things. things weren’t okay between us, they were awkward, but at least we were friends, and then we just stopped. stopped texting every hour of the day. radio silence. and that was the end. i haven’t talked to you since that day three years ago. and all i wanted to do was let go.

the truth is that i hate being vulnerable. even the things i write are surface level reflections of what i choose to show and i think maybe that’s why i haven’t sent this. because i hate being vulnerable and sending this to you would be asking for something and that would be vulnerable because it would give you the chance (again, again, again) to give me nothing in return. did you know you’re the reason i had such issues in how close i’d let friends be to me? i was so so so terrified that i’d give another friend my all only to be met with something halfway that i just couldn’t anymore. i grew colder. i got more scared of liking someone more than they liked me. there was a distance that i held them at and it was all me and an insecurity borne from you. but that’s not who i am and you knew (past tense) it. because what sunny v. does is love and love and love. and i know it’s not right to pin it all on one person but gosh the issues i have just from you alone is. well.

and that’s the past now. i’m better. i’m older, just a bit, maybe. i’m less cautious in the people i let see different sides of me. i’m still writing, and i know you are too. sometimes i’ll get published in another magazine and i’ll see your piece right below mine. and it’s bitter, maybe, it stings (present tense), but i’m going to let go.

because the truth is that you hurt me. and it was your fault, but it was also mine. we both could have been better, but i wouldn’t change things. not really. because the truth is that i will never see myself being on good terms with you again, but that doesn’t mean i haven’t forgiven you. we will probably never speak again and i will never get the chance to hear you ask for my forgiveness, but i have. i’ve done it. i’ve forgiven you, and i didn’t do it for you. every time i see your name, i remind myself of this. because holding on to my hate feels like i’ve let you win. so i’ll let go.

so without even asking for it, i forgive (present tense) you. i will never forget you. and i forgive you. you will never see this, but i’m putting this past me. the truth is that i used to think of whether you still thought of me and how it all went wrong the same way i did. and now that i’ve decided to forgive you, i realize that i no longer care. so this is goodbye: to the memory of you, which is all i have left.

i hope you’ve forgiven me, too. because i’ve let go (present tense). and i want you to, too. i think we owe each other this much.

until we meet again,

Sunny V.