backwardswe're back in delicate city drinking raspberry lattes like it's summer and nothing ever happened. your mother let you come outside to smell the yellow-colored roses in shop windows and reflect over the glazed smell of baking in the morning. she doesn't know i'm here. we sit on benches and chain smoke virginia slims like pastors' wives.backwards by breathingglassstars
"where've you been?" i ask you.
"busy, i guess. hardly seeing anyone. but look, i'm progressing. i want you to know that."
raspberry, sticky-sweet, drips down our throats. it's been forever, lifetimes almost, since you first turned on me, tried hitting me like i was the reason you were suffering. the flash of your red-flamed face looms in memory. my heartbeats run faster.
"what did they do to you?"
"gave me lots of sedatives. took me into rooms when i got too riled up about something. calmed me down by zonking me out into this half-sleeping state all the time. it worked, i guess. i don't feel so much anymore. nothing gets through. but look, look, i am...
coals die downquite mysterious, i'mcoals die down by breathingglassstars
suddenly driven mad by
the harsh lines of your brow bone
and the shelf of your collarbone.
on wednesdays, i wake up
over you like dead water
sticky with mosquitoes on those
moonless nights when we're
conscious of penetrating darkness,
when our whispers mix and we're
forced into oblivion selected
by celestial cycles. sleep.
so i wander to your eyelids
and let my gaze sweep like full-moon
hands and fall back asleep, lifted
up by the drawing of your breath.
i am growing oldfinding sequences of afternoons where i'mi am growing old by breathingglassstars
fumbling around in a dark gray room
trying to uncover pathways never
opened in me, grown from patches
of organic cells to give me home,
let other people waste me away on
summer sunday, 3 p.m. when nothing's happening.
i try to explore cavities, opening
myself up for light to burn and allow
nostalgia to weep from empty wounds
almost like tears or rain.
and then all the pieces of me
will evaporate cleanly like freckles
lifted from skin after winter shows.
i peel myself from cold tiles
covered in daisies, i remind myself
of the way bodies should work
like machines in the nighttime
and docile animals in the morning
when the sun won't stop for anyone.
we don't remember the passage
of time as each second wastes,
forgotten, another moment gone
as it blooms inside my head and dies,
this action, this moment before the dark
with lights carelessly going out,
has meaning only to me, for
moments leave me powerless, whimpering
asleep, inside, reborn, wornwe were girls once, following the tepid musings of the ones we sought. when sunshine slept on our eyelids in front rooms, backrooms, and kitchens, our vision was full of motion. our lives were full of brimmed one-sided warmth reflecting the smallness of our backs and our mouths and the things we saw outside our windows. we saw the streets and the dirty cars and the black tar but we didn't think of those. instead, our time dripped silent from the beams of our hair as we braided it down our backs and comforted each other with our arms tucked and folded together, piled.asleep, inside, reborn, worn by breathingglassstars
there they were. the boys walked on the outside, laughing flowers and kissing trees. they stood just beyond the window panes, absorbing shocks of light, coming in and out of focus with the breeze. they never looked in as we touched our hair and lay on hardwood, letting the dust pile around our ears. these boys were living in ways we didn't know how. they didn't fear the electric wires or the radioactive heat pouring beyond
november.the day i was born was not a day of sparkling stars and soft-spoken lullabies, of rose-colored memories and warm autumn hearts. time did not stand still, but instead slipped between shrill cries and bitter words. but i would not know; i was not there. i cannot remember my first breath, and i cannot remember what i saw the first time i opened my eyes. but perhaps i never really learned to breathe perhaps my eyes never opened after all.november. by theresambraun
when i turned five, i discovered the art of being alone.
i learned that there is no celebration song when you are twenty-three hundred miles from where you belong and your family has fluttered off into the sky. i was trapped at the foot of a stranger's bed, a salty ocean tide dripping down my face. though i had no candles to put out, i figured memories of a thirteen-year-old's cigarette smoke were substitute enough i wished california would fall into the sea so this desert would feel more home.
when i turned six,