Xanadu
 

Mother, I cannot say it much clearer. I am simply not real. I’m not sure why, but the histories of the Ancient Egyptian pharaohs Tutankhamen or Hatshepsut, the silk trade or Surrealism and the Greek Wars seem incomprehensible. My memories elude me. They are the distant past, from which I am woefully detached. I am their prisoner, as the semblances of what I had kaleidoscope in my hippocampus. They are mine no longer — rather sterile, lifeless fragments of when I was. I have f

after Mark Hillringhouse Trapped under the pressure it builds up and becomes harder to hide a feeling and proof you can’t ignore simply looking back and shutting the door without thinking the memories flowing in like a broken record each time breaking my heart. Constant arguments the old memories of an amazing moment with parents becoming a blurry past. A simple I hate you deeply carved into the hearts of those who seemed to care a broken picture frame, containing the past I

Before I leave my warm bed every morning you earmuff me. I am hugged by soft spheres of sunshine, and smothered by the heat of cordial stovetops. I walk into your world every afternoon, encompassed by your gracious gift. My wool coat invades my personal space, but you tell me that it's better that I'm too warm, that the alternative, freezing, is much less favorable. I wander cobblestone roads, doing what I must to avoid the falling snowflakes that you warn me about. When curi

You blew glass around my voice. Whatever sound managed to escape confinement was quickly regretted. The threat of shattering such a delicate moment of complacent peace, was enough to vase me in your flower filled arms. A beautiful, yet fragile cage made to rule and ruin my existence. Every breath (breathed too hard) was a risk I could not take. I was painfully aware that shards may fill my lungs at any moment.

My heavy hat falls forward covering my eyes blinding me. Reality like a beard masking my features, stealing my individuality, leaving me standing stiff (while beautiful blooming flowers burst from the ground around me). Sprouting high above my head. Shafts of shadow peek beyond the sunning petals. My eyes snake along the path boulders blocking my way. Too large to imagine climbing, with such a fragile frame. The thought brought breaking porcelain to mind – as if I could hear

One nugget too many, one fry too many, one big mac too many. A cheap meal at a heavy price. Each burger is a breath of greasy air, inflating the body like a balloon. Your limbs are suspended. Your motion is limited. Your energy is removed. Every movement becomes a struggle. The brain can’t function on Sugar, fat, salt, and sugar, and fat, and salt. Yet you can’t help yourself. You come back— Again and Again. An addiction under a veil of golden arches. A never ending cycle. Am

Here you are, sweatering me. Our hands neatly woven, fingers like yarn. Your warmth leaves me turtlenecked, concealed and shielded. Your reassuring words, which are soft as wool, button us closer together. You crochet my unraveled soul. You tell me everything’s alright. You help hook me out of the world for a while every time you hold me tight.

Loosely– my green-browning sneakers slipping off, grasped by the umbering mud. The scarlet tubed slide reflecting on my cheeks, along with the charcoaling pavement. The marigolding sun, kissing my apricot skin. A pearling droplet on my forehead from tom-foolish play during free time. Young lilacking blossoms, lacking wisdom, wandering lost in streets. Unworried, filled with bliss, committing no crime. Their cherried knees from falling in the emerald fields, and cherry-ringed

I am the rose in the Sahara. Zebraing amongst the camels, pinking in the muddled brown. My petals peacock. They radiate like no other, in the midst of the barren wasteland. My beauty, too rare not to savor. But they are greedy and they long for every last morsel. The birds, the camels, the gnats, they all pull me apart. Piece by piece. I cannot cacti like the cactus does. I cannot be independent of the elements; I cannot withstand the harshness of my environment; I cannot pie

You own me: faces of portraits presented to those whom you entertained. I am held by the nails on the slick white wall, and encased in spotless glass boxes. A note hangs by each piece that you are pedestaling. You display your perfect collection while that which ashamed you remains locked away, hidden in the basement. I remain to live. This museum gives me meaning. I am useless, only worth the value posted next to each piece of me. My purpose is to be admired, my goal to be e