Xanadu
 

I want to be the legs you walk on- to take you in the right direction. I want to be your warm leather eyes to show the beauty in the world, then the eyelashes to protect you from its dangers. I want to be your pair of dark washed out cherry lips… for nothing more than just to truly feel and taste them to their fullest. I want to be your swirling curly hair so I can connect to your head, to truly understand you. Be the ears on your head to disclose these true words of love. Be

Tobacco is still tobacco Whether it's a single mothers coping mechanism, or a cheap old woman's perfume. Magnificent mint flavoring escapes from adolescence. Tobacco is still tobacco permeating the respiratory system slowly. Growing on tropical cultivation. Lead and arsenic in the bloodstream. Brown stained teeth, bloody gums. Cleaver sharped pains hit the chest. Whether it's once a day or all the time— tobacco is still tobacco.

Awoken to sugarbirds stirring outside my window, I run down the stairs and into the kitchen. Soft soles making a pitter patter against the cold tile floor. I sit at the dining table, rubbing my eyes. Burnt toast and butter with a mug of Milo is neatly arranged. Each bite just as sweet as your humming. Inconsequential to you, refreshing to me. Bathing in that silver tub, bubbles to my chin. My hair like honey basking in the sunlight. Your garden surrounds me. The sweet scent o

She's comfortable in silence, making no demands nor declarations. Her silence holds dignity, the kind which carries intent. She bathes you in sunlight and brushes your hair with gusts of wind. She lives in a home made from gentle words, reverent gestures, and sings lullabies of lovers' heartbeats. She requires no sash nor ribbon and she has no expectations. She once lay at your bedside, tugging at the hem of your sleeve. Yet, you were too busy complaining of sharp sunlight pi

Monday, Tuesday, Friday. The days slip by my fingers, Clawing at each one that passes.  The clock ticks, The right hand moving at a rapid pace. I grab his hand and push back, But I always fall. Getting swept passed each number. Tossed around and bruised. With nothing to do, Besides, accept it. Time will wipe me away— I'll be nothing but a memory.

There are two baselines connected to two side lines that form an 84 by 50 ft rectangle. The rectangle is covered in precisely drawn out lines on either half of the court. The second I enter this cramped space and step onto the freshly polished hardwood floor, only one thing comes to mind— by the end of the 32 minutes, the bright red numbers underneath home are more than away. Once I look up to see those first eight minutes illuminated on the clock, nothing else matters. The w

The tan grains linger as I shake the towel. My hair is one stubborn curl who fears a brush with boar bristles. The boardwalk invites splinters cutting the soles of my feet. The lull has passed and all that is left—  unforgiving waves. Cold water drips down my side, and my clarity sets in. I am no longer having fun. Please cover me up. Please bring me home. Chasing the changing rooms, sodium chloride infiltrates my skin. This is not what I wanted. But when the frozen flakes du

Shay Lublin I do not belong in belonging  “Be careful of the possessive” (I never realized how haunting it is) My and mine make me shiver I want to loafe in my own being  Is such freedom obtainable? My greatest friend is isolation, My biggest fear is objectification, Silent strings tugging me, fooling me, singing to me in sweet songs of manipulation So let me float in my own soul— At least for a while longer Clinging, dreaming My naive youth is fleeting after all I will belon

When she loathes me, I know it. Jabs and slurs: her  rapturous melodies. Her words are harsh and unyielding,  but they burn in front of me in full view. Even so, she  fences with a ghost assailant, cutting right through me  but never landing. Still, she slices away, leaving nothing  to the imagination. She is unrelenting, tells me I am  evil and quiet, calculating and uncommunicative, there  but not. At least, she says, you know my pain. At least,  she says, I share it with y

I want to be skis. Narrow and sure, Whispering down your path. Edges sharpened, waxed bright, Cutting fine lines through the powder Gliding through the wind. The Snow crunching beneath me on the mountains where I may roam Powdered trees raining as I pass Broken logs blocking my path Following the pipes made of brass Slipping on ice and falling on my ass The top of the mountain is where I observe all day So much to take in, I don’t know what to say The scenery taking my breath