zxrysky-writes

and there i was, staggering through the streets of oxford, bedraggled and hurting, pupils blown as i hunted for a restroom. my mouth was open, because i was doing breathing exercises. went into a cafe, shit luck there (the pun is not lost on me). went into three different blackwells and maybe one of them had a restroom, but my vision was too blurry to read the sign.

i turned the corner. there was a pub nestled in between two other establishments, the guide had said. one of the famous pubs in the region. always filled with people. you might find a restroom in there, he had said, and i stumbled in through the doors. there were steps, and this is no exaggeration of mine, but it was a descent into one of dante's circles of hell.

to make matters worse, it was filled with people. no clear signs on where the restroom was, and something thick filled my throat. i couldn't speak. the bar had seven people all clamouring for the attention of two bartenders and little ol' me wouldn't have even made a blip on their radar.

i feel the negative space of you,

the parts where i used to fit before i out-

grew you.

i think i miss you more when you’re gone;

because all i have of you now is a memory

and my memory has never been great,

so whatever i have left of you

i miss you, i never told you, and i never thought i would, but now you’re years behind me and i can’t find the imprint you left on my soul in the mirror

i miss you, and my breath stutters every time i sit in the spot we used to sit, and my heart trips like it’s walking on a tight wire that’s about to snap

when i am older, i used to think,

i would turn into someone else.

like a caterpillar’s metamorphosis,

pulling me out of myself.

but what is fate if not predestined;

a novel if not read;

a life if not lived; or

a tree if not heard?

dust creaks in my bones,

piling up in untouched fairy tales.

the girl who lived happily ever after

lies buried beneath my fingernails.

if the girl in the tale lived now,

forgoing her finished story;

the pages of the book would flip open,

her words in bloody allegory.

she doesn’t bite the apple.

she doesn’t hide in the woods.

she doesn’t run from the castle.

she stands in the throne room.

the clock hits midnight;

the bells start ringing;

a wanted poster is put up,

saying cinderella’s gone missing.

land beckons like a siren,

but the ocean’s call is sweeter.

a trident is hefty in her grip,

and a crown is heavy on her head.

if aurora could choose, maybe

she wouldn’t be born at all.

because what’s a life worth living

if you know how you fall?

now i dip my hands into the silt,

beneath the surface of the river.

then you drag me from the water,

and time trickles between my fingers.

one of my greatest fears is being left alone

it feels like this:

a storm brewing, the salty wind tumbling into your sweat streaked skin as you stand on the edge of the crow’s nest, a scarf wrapped around your throat and your eyes squeezed half close as you look out into the horizon. the boat rocks beneath you, a gentle sway that bucks into a wave crashing over the sides and your heart leaps into your throat as you grip the wood with wet palms.

 your fingers slip. you miss. you fall.

 it feels like this:

gravity does not work for you. you grip the edges of the bar and there is a whistling in the emptiness of your skull as you swing, the collective breaths of the audience all held in the middle of their throats as they watch, words tucked beneath tongues pressed against teeth as they wait. when the music swells, all you can hear is the flutter of your eyelashes against your cheekbones and you let go, hands uncurling from the bar and for one breathless moment, there is nothing holding you down.

 you open your eyes. you breathe. you fly.

 it feels like this:

your blood throbs so fast in your veins you think it might be gold flowing under your skin, brilliant ichor glistening in the sun against your temple as you raise your bow, the string catching the edge of broken calluses on your index finger and you hiss out a bitten off curse. the gauntlets bite into the skin on your forearms and the straps of the breastplate are all stained with mud; grains of dirt seep into the hinges and your body groans when you pull your arrow back.

 you let go. you watch. you live.

 it goes like this:

on christmas morning, you lie awake in bed. sunlight filters in through the window in fits and spurts; the curtain blows out, and you see dustmotes circling the air above you like a cheap angel’s halo. there is a sigh sitting in the base of your throat, just waiting for you to let it out and your fingers reach out for your phone. merry christmas, you think, and consider sending it to the person occupying your thoughts. you open your phone. the message from him is already lying there for you to see.

dappled sunlight dances through my front door

it’s so brightly colored i falter

in my steps towards the kitchen  

the door is wide open even if i remember

slamming it shut just the day before

the hinges rattling against the frame

so sharply it felt like my body

would fall apart along with it

it feels like every joke

that fell flat between us;

every off-bitten curse to hide our frustrations;

every laugh we forced through our perfect lips

 i stare at the gold dripping into

the entrance of my house, the copper  

traipsing the same path as stubborn vines

you are very easy to forgive

even if forgiveness sits sour

my parents set me down once,

looked me in the eye and told me,

in halting breaths, to do my best.

In everything, they said, and spread

their arms so wide, i thought

their palms could encompass the

world, their backs could carry the

sky, their fingers could touch the

stars. what they didn’t tell me

was that not everyone’s parents

told them the same thing.

sometimes i just

   run out of words

to describe you with

   you leave me speechless

struck absolutely dumb