Living in Another Reality

I find myself standing within the rain,

alone in the middle of the darkening

streets as the rest of the world hides in

the comfort of their homes. Conscious

of every drop pounding upon one another,

battering themselves along delegate glass,

seeking their way in. A sole crack unofficially signs

the unfortunate owner’s death wish as a single drop

echoes throughout the room, unannounced

and unwanted. A biting chill gnaws at

my skin as the wind begins to stir,

creeping itself through until a hurricane

devours me. For a single moment the world

lays bare, an eerie calm blankets the neighborhood

as they embrace themselves for the demanding

orchestra bound to arrive. Ever professional

and ever present, the band plays true.

The soft rumbles vibrating into my soles,

striking my core as the high pitch screech

rings sound and sudden, a maddening crescendo

overpowering the reality of our world.

Memories of lonely nights, hidden beneath cotton sheets

and quiet prays as fear trembled through my body.

Knives of steel slash against the gloomy sky above,

striking fire upon each tree caging me,

only for a second, but long enough

to illuminate long limbed monsters within,

each cut guiding their path one step closer.

Reaching weathered hands of disorientation.

Golden almond eyes of apprehension.

Pearly fangs of unknown. Yet, I still stand

within the rain, a mortal bound to be struck down

by the weather gods above as I ignore

their warnings, welcoming each harsh attack

upon my body. For the sensation

of understanding overcomes me.

To cherish the insignificant moments, no matter

how punishing, for they will only last

so long. So I stand in the rain, the frozen chill

soaking itself deep into my bones,

unnatural wails of haunting promises

reach my ears, and I welcome it all.

Oblivious to My Sickness It’s a confession I fear to verbalize, Something not far from the truth. Questioned in the dark of night, A mentality built up throughout my youth.

To admit something out loud, I personally do not understand, Yet deep down knew existed, Guiding me by the hand.

Shame did not coat my mind, Nor did hate bruise my soul. But a special kind of numbness, Would travel around, taking control.

I did not dread the monsters That hid in delicious disguise. Forever increasing my calorie intake,   However, my actions spoke otherwise.

My comfort built behind a size too large, Draping my body in a sagging second skin. An attempt to create a shapeless form, Compared to the hourglass hidden within.

Breakfast was poison to my tongue, The fresh awakening of food. Constantly twisting my stomach into knots, Suddenly darkening my morning mood.

Lunch is history of the past. The pressure to eat enforced upon me While hundreds of questioning eyes, Crawled up my skin like an annoying flea.

For dinner felt more like a command than a need. To hear the scraping sound upon my plate, As I savor every last bite, At an unsuspiciously slow rate.

As the black digits fight back and forth, haunting voices cheered me on. Commending me for my brave sacrifices, Thoughts I never improve upon.

I do not deprive myself of food. To soil my body in sickening heaves, Pressing and choking Til every nutrient leaves.

Not consciously, that is. Yet, a day will arise where I skip a meal, Focused more on my work Than my body that needs to heal.

It is a confession I fear to verbalize, Something I secretly wish was a lie. To look upon myself in the mirror, And hopefully understand why.

Why do I punish my body for living And wanting to fill itself whole? To eat as I pleased, Instead of wanting to fill in a role?

Like every girl I come across, I seek the comfort of an identity. To feel the special warmth of someone Who is beautiful, yet simply not me.

The pressure that weighs upon my chest, To fill in the cookie cutter imprint, Of what makes a woman a woman, All I need is a simple hint.

Yet here I stand, questioning my own mind, Knowing something is wrong deep inside. A sickness I have grown with, That is bound to make me die.

Eight seconds to sign your name. Eight weeks to salute the flag. My dear son, barely nineteen, A solder, I promise that.

May he be young, bare and good, Blind to the dangers of war. A father’s approval craved, Who knew nothing, but Air Force.

A home forever changing As duty commands the house. Silence of understanding, Sacrifice unknown to most.

Eight weeks to salute the flag. Eight beats of needed comfort. A phone call throughout the day, Never missed nor excluded.

A break from constant routine, As your name is called upon. Letters upon letters reach, Stories from out side the wall.

Precious cargo locked within Every metal bottom drawer. Scratchy writing, glitter pen. My dear son, I beg one more.

Eight beats of needed comfort. Eight hundred footsteps per day. Perfecting each position, A unit, none march astray.

Where silver beads dress your neck, An identity in metal. Black threading upon your chest, Unnoticed, yet meaningful.

Men and women all alike, Broken down, then brought back up. Metal coin upon each hand, Proof of one’s dedication.

Eight hundred footsteps per day. Eight thousand miles away. Graduation, come and gone. A solder at last, my son.

I pray each night as you head Deep into enemy land. For your safe return back home, Unbroken, still my young man.

The stain of desperation soaks itself into my pale skin, forever ruining the goodness that once hid within.

I believed myself to be smarter than the girls who would idiotically pressed send, punctuating on the beginning of a reality that would soon end. To submit themselves to a digital identity of a man, one who never whispered innocent sweet promises in the quiet of night as they laid within his arm span. Instead they fell for the carefully put together letters forming such lines of poetry, knotted together so gently, that one day they each find themselves hanging from a tree. To believe a false face only visible in six inches, yet we constantly fall for his wishes. To please a man we know nothing of, all because he calls us his sweet little dove. Why, I ask, do we do this? Falling perfectly in line, each one behind, never learning from the tears that streak our face and acting like it is all fine. Are we not worthy of  respect, even in the digital aspect? Must I continue to scream into the warming wind as it brushes against my buzzing skin? Must I watch those three grey dots pop up only to disappear, sparking inside my chest something close to fear? Fear of affection? Fear of rejection?

My attempt at scaffolding ‘Summer Storm’ by Dana Gioia.

“Alex tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. Scuffs the heel of his boot against the linoleum floor. Looks down at his ballot.

PRESIDENT and VICE PRESIDENT of the UNITED STATES

Vote for one

He picks up the stylus chained to the machine, his heart behind his molars, and selects: CLAREMONT, ELLEN and HOLLERAN, MICHEAL.

The machine chirps it’s approval, and to it’s gently humming mechanisms, he could be anybody. One of millions, a single tally mark, worth no more or less than any of the others. Just pressing a button.

-

EXCERPT: PRESIDENT ELLEN CLAREMONT’S VICTORY ADDRESS FROM AUSTIN, TEXAS, NOVEMBER 3, 2020

...There were those who would have seen us stumble backward into hatred and vitriol and prejudice, who wanted to reignite old embers of division within our country’s very soul. You looked them square in the eye and said, “No, we won’t.”

You voted instead for...”

““Good, good.” He smiled, revealing a mouth of crowded, yellowing teeth, his gums black like a wolf’s. “I want us to be friends. It is so important that we are friends.”

“Of course.”

“I would be pleased if you would accept a gift from me,” he said, reaching into the folds of his brown robes and removing a small book bound in red leather.

How could someone offering you a present sound so creepy.

Reluctantly, I leaned forward and took the book from his long, blue-veined hand. The title was embossed in gold on the cover: Istorii Sankt’ya.

“The Lives of Saints?”

He nodded. “There was a time when all Grisha children were given this book when they came to school at the Little Palace.”

“Thank you,” I said, perplexed.

“Peasants love their Saints. They hunger for the miraculous. And yet they do not love the Grisha. Why do you think that is?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I said. I opened the book. Someone had written my name inside the cover. I flipped a few pages. Sankt Petyr of Brevno. Sankt Ilya in Chains. Sankta Lizabeta. Each chapter began with a full-paged illustration, beautifully rendered in brightly colored inks.”

-Shadow and Bone, Leigh Bardugo

@lbardugo​

___

Review of The Lives of Saints:

Let me start off by saying how excited I was to hear Bardugo was publishing this book for us all to enjoy. I immediately froze, freaking out inside, as I read her post, trying to learn as much as I could about her new book. Every day I would log online in hopes she would release something new in regards to it. It’s one thing to read about this small, red book in Shadow and Bones, envisioning myself within the Grisha world and connecting to the characters as they fight against the darkness in their world. It’s another thing completely to actually possess it. By fully writing and publishing this book, she is giving us the chance to live the lives of the characters we read about. 

Sure, we don’t have the power to heal someone. Sure, we can’t make someones heart explode with the snap of our fingers the moment they piss us off. Sure, we can’t drift our enemies out into sea, slowly downing them in what will be documented as a harsh storm. 

But we can be like the little Grisha kids who would go to school with wide eyes and read the stories of the saints who will help guide them. We can experience the feelings they each felt while looking upon every illustration and crave to start the next chapter after finish the last. We can look back at everything that happens in the Grishaverse, rather it is the interactions between Alina and Mal or Matthias and Nina, with new eyes after learning the very stories they were once told. 

It may just appear as another book to add to our never ending list, one that will cause us to redecorate our bookshelves in hopes to make room (even though we know we will never get everything to fit properly), but to me, it is another step into fantasy and a step away from reality. Bardugo once mentioned a nonexistent book in Shadow and Bones and yet here it is. Now all I need is Netflix to release the show.

“REASONS I HAVE DIED:

The emperor of the wasteland want to make an example of my mother, and started with me.

One of my mothers boyfriends wanted to cover up what he did to me.

I was born addicted and my lungs didn’t develop.

I was born addicted and my brain didn’t develop.

I was left alone, and a stranger came along.

The runners came for a neighbor, and I was in the way.

The runners came for my mother, and I was in the way.

The runners came for my mothers boyfriend, and I was in the way.

The runners came for no one, serving nothing at all but chaos and fear, and I was what they found.

Sometimes, I was just forgotten in the shed where she kept me while she worked or spun out, and in the length of her high and the heat of the sun I fell asleep alone and hungry and forever.

REASONS I HAVE LIVED:

I don’t know, but there are eight.”