Angels Of The Deep

angels of the deep

A swarm of statues awakens within the cold, stirred by the tampering of man. Their stony gowns weigh them down as they rise from the chill of the waters, like cicadas in July, until the last emerges from the expanse of the night sea. She gently lowers herself, clutching the waves as if they were stone themselves, and lifts her waterlogged moth wings, slowly opening her eyeless lids. The artificial intruder looms before her, threatening the calmness of her organic domain. The sight of the illuminated white, the sounds of her sister screeches draw her toward the abomination. Every instinct she has is screaming Danger.

li~quid ca~ndy

right now I’m sittin’ in the backseat sippin’ on a strawberry Fanta that you say tastes too sweet But I say tastes like liquid candy I guess I guess I guess I guess I say that too often, don’t I?

You ask me to join you. And I ask why. You say that you miss me. And I ask. why.

I wanna go back. I wanna go back to. When I was sittin’ in the backseat sippin’ on a strawberry Fanta that you said tastes too sweet. But I said tastes like liquid candy.

awkward first date

why does this always happen?

long silences filled with quick eye contact and giggles for no reason

like an awkward first date

no one would guess that we’ve known each other for years

little touches

leaning in

hugs that last too long

where i am

it is dark, but the grey-orange glow of the city bounces off of the clouds and seeps through the window. i can hear rain, and the occasional whisper of distant thunder or a car’s tires on the street outside. the couch is too hot, but it is soft.

i am the only one. i wish i could bring you here, but you are far away, aren’t you?

broken zipper

At first, it was just a vacation. I still had the old house, I just ate dinner at a different table. I slept in a different bed, but my old room was still there. I still had that connection. That promise to return. That reason to go back.

It was sold. Now someone I don’t know lives in my house. My room.

But still, there was the car. My mom’s gargantuan silver Toyota. The one we’d had since I was in elementary school. The only car that didn’t make me totally motion sick. I held onto that for a while.

It was totaled. They let me keep the mangled license plate. It was lost among the boxes.

And it keeps going like that. I comfort myself with a different item from my life,    from when I was actively living my life, each one more insignificant than the last, until something happens to take it away from me.

like the backpack from my old school its zipper broke and it’s close to unusable but i’m stubborn i guess or the binder i bought just because it was the same brand as the one i used a few years ago it ripped in half so i tape it back together every time the tape wears off

That One Scarf

There is this one particular scarf that follows me across the city.

You probably know the one, you’ve probably seen it,

as many times as I have. I’ve known it for as long as I can remember.

It is cheaply made from felt, soft but easily frayed,

and patterned with plaid, black and white with red veins, on drab beige.

My dad has one, and I don’t know where he got it, where they all get it from,

but I recognise it like a beacon every time I see it wrapped around the neck of another

person in the subway or on the sidewalk.

The wearers vary immensely— not all of them are middle-aged Italian fathers. I’ve seen it on college students, on old women. People young and old are united by this strip of

cloth that loops them together

through time and space.

My eyes follow the scarf when I see it on the street, and it greets be like an old friend, a

reminder of

where I came from

and

how lucky I am to still be here.