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OsmosisMy brother and I
used to walk on the beach.
We’d step from rock to rock and
end up far out in the ocean.
He’d always climb down
and let the water lick his pants.
I’d look at him with groundless terror
masked as judgment and he’d say
What? We’ll get wet anyway.
I’d always end up in the water,
wet socks and pants, Mom would scold,
but I always acted like this time I wouldn’t.
I knew it would happen, but I never let it,
and when water crept through my shoes
I’d cry for being such a fool, for letting it.
Osmosis be damned, it was my fault
for not trying harder.
Half of my sleeping nights I
dream it all and don’t exist when
I wake up. The other half is empty
and then I dream with my eyes open.
I have this dream sometimes where
all my friends line up and offer me
death. I ask them if they want me to
and their smiles crack and hang sideways
like a nicotine-addict’s when they take
out a cigarette, the I know I shouldn
BalloonsI never meant to be like this,
she's a stranger and my eyes are blank.
Her office is red, red-gold, red-brown,
red-purple and red-blue (but that
doesn't make an ounce of sense!
So? Neither do I)
I'm blank now,
my hands are tangled in my lap,
knotted because I never learned
how to tie a proper knot (Girl Scouts,
not Boy Scouts and goodness knows
a little girl will never need that)
so I learned my own haphazard knots
to tie balloons to my wrist.
They lifted me towards the sky,
and I want to tell the counselor
who's name I haven't learned
that I need my balloon back.
I want to tell her I'm the one
who cut the strings.
When the blue bled out of the sky,
it got caught in my shirt instead.
And I wear it over my sternum to say
this is how it once was,
this is where I was.
But it's gray now, I'm gray,
and my face is going blank.
And she looks at me like
I'm the wrong sort of stranger.
And I want her to know that this isn't me,
that I didn't use to be like this
Ghost in the MachineThere were days
her happiness in brightness,
when she would hold
her hands over her eyes
and the cracks of sunlight,
like old paint on drywall,
would shine through
to let her know exactly
who it was that held her.
Who is it?
And at that moment of recognition
...she felt okay.
More than photons
reflecting off of totem shells,
humanity is conch-cradled
in her dusk where light perception
is limited to the moon, where blind
is a swear word and an oath
dependent on a circadian
arcade: she is blind
and going blinder.
she allows herself a curfew
to blow out the lantern
and sing without color
for the first time.
you rely on a perfect balance—
trusting the sunshine to smile
on your bare arms at eight a.m.,
two p.m., half-past six and ticking on,
letting the moon comfort you
as patchwork clouds shawl over
midnight's studded shoulders,
leaving behind aspects of life:
natural, mundane, mechanical,
and self-made doubts.
Don't forget yo
Driving through the NightmareThe bracelet on my wrist is blue
and can tell you my name and
who to call and
where I should be and
two of the half-a-million things
wrong inside me.
I'd add insomnia and
a whole host of other things,
but they only gave me five lines.
How am I supposed to only be five lines?
// \\ // \\
I haven't slept in four days.
I've been in a nightmare where it's foggy
and rainy and sunny and all of the possibilities
all at once.
And it doesn't make any damn sense
because I'm only allowed to be one thing
and awake seems to be the only option
?? !! ?? !!
I've been in the car that drove through the nightmare
because Isaiah took me to the pharmacy
and tried to find something that'll reset my brain.
Because I'm one speed setting too fast
and as I tried to tell them my voice got stuck
and I switched to trying to dance.
And people don't know if they should smile or cry
because I might be crazy and spiraling
but for once this last month I'm laughing
because I can
Rip-Tear SmilesI am often drawn into conversation about my pants.
They're so ripped as to be simultaneously confusing and hilarious. They're so ragged in places that they're fuzzy, the seams scarcely hold them together and the creases that age pounded into them have torn wide like toothless, dehydrated smiles.
I often find myself joking about my pants.
My pants are a joke, they're laughter barely hanging onto my knees. They're "shorts with extra fabric". They're "casual windbreakers."
I often find myself talking about my pants.
I tell people about falling down the stairs, about the sheer nonsense they have put up with. I tell people about climbing trees and almost falling and the strange way I sit.
I never find myself telling the true story behind my pants.
My pants are a map. They're this year, laid out in front of all of us. They're my sagging depression, they're my own self-destruction ripping at the seams. You can see my insomnia through the holes in my pockets. You can see my loneliness in my th
Prayer to the ButterflyI am small and meaningless
against the nighttime sky.
Let me be a butterfly,
teach me how to fly.
I never grew my wings,
but I'd hate to stay and die.
I'll ask to be a butterfly,
they'll teach me how to fly.
My voice has left me now,
it comes back just to cry.
I'll ask to be a butterfly,
it couldn't hurt to try.
For I am finite nothingness
pressed up against the sky.
I asked to be a butterfly,
they laughed and asked back 'why?'
My heart has gone to find my voice,
it stopped and waved goodbye.
God forgive the butterfly
for asking how to fly.
And God forbid the butterfly
ask help from those who cry.
Barefoot RainstormI arrived here a barefoot rainstorm
on the wrong side of this
I was afraid of the sun
and didn't want you to care about me.
You were glittery-gold and green,
bruised grass and sun
and you cared anyway.
We were holes in knees
of our jeans, we were sewing needles,
we were sad-happy-scared
and we were here.
I trusted you.
We were clumsy,
we were laughter-dangerous
and there was blood on the floor.
You laughed as I cleaned it.
We were home,
and I learned not to hate the sun.
It's midnight this afternoon
and the sun is off the edge of the map.
And I'm barefoot in the rainstorm and an entire country from home.
And I'm clumsy,
and there's no one to laugh
as I clean myself from the floor.
(But maybe one day the clouds will go.)
(You're still green-glitter gold
[midnight's only so long]
and I still believe in our sky.)
Cherry-Eucalyptus MiseryI make cheap tea
in a cheap plastic cup,
boil it down into ashes.
Tastes like ashes, tastes like destiny.
I didn't ask for this.
Knees bent into chest
wounded and scream-gasping
because I didn't ask for this.
I lie in bed at night
and play with the edges of the blankets.
I listen for breathing. I hear my own.
I am ashamed.
There's nothing on the floor but dirt,
tracked in on my shoes
but I'm barefoot now
and what are we going to do about that.
There's mud on my feet
and the grass is green-tea sunshine
but I lost my tongue.
Sewed sewage under my skin
and drank poison to wash away the taste
of my tears.
They gave me cough drops for my bronchitis,
and all that's left in me
is cherry-eucalyptus misery.
There's nothing on the floor but me,
cherry-eucalyptus and bent knees,
elbows dug into sewage-sewn ribs.
The kettle clicks off,
and my destiny pools in a two-dollar cup
and I cry ashes instead of tears.
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More