Xanadu
 

Glass is still glass whether we gaze through it or shatter it into a million pieces or make a mystical mural or hold red roses or clean thoroughly to take a pretty picture or search for on the beach or step on unexpectedly at a dark sketchy park or wash with sudsy soap. Glass is still glass whether it holds pink lemonade or vials of blood, bright green acid, a mothers warm tomato soup for her sickly neighbor or a sourdough starter. Glass is still glass cover

My confidence is a mirror in a fun house. Distorted, changing and uncertain. It transforms at each glance. Twisting and contorting. Subtle alterations setting off endless reactions. What once felt safe and calm, now feels dangerous and agonizing. As the mirror contorts and shifts, my thoughts get louder and louder. I look to the left of me, a shard of a shattered mirror lays on the floor. But there’s someone next to me, I watch as they stare at the broken image of themselves

The fading sunset over the city by the Bay. A hot cayenne makes a powerful statement. A Muni stops at Market Street. The scent of bark across from Marin. A cable car crosses Van Ness. The box of Rice A Roni on a stove. A bed of roses by the Wharf. The angry man stands with rage. A bright sea of taillights of commuters going home. The seat belt click in the roaring Mustang on Geary. A puddle of blood following a fired 44 Magnum. The awning over a Chinese Restaurant. An electr

From Disney Fast-Play on the DVR To picking out a reliable car Monster High Dolls on a carpet floor 2am laughter muffled by a closed door Blunt bad jokes that shrug off life Slices of mango that slide off the knife Bitter black coffee with a bit too much sugar The crunch of a leaf and the wind that took her Pineapple scents from a curly hair routine Smiling as it finally feels like me Lively family dinners almost every night Dreams of a dorm room with warm fairy lights Paradi

Tides swayin’ slowly above the twinkling night sky. The serenity of the moon lit atmosphere fills me— illuminating the flecks of diamonds embedded in my hair. My pale skin and cyanotic veins glow. Midnight shines like a frozen glacier dancin’ with the lights, revealing the tear drops streaming down my face— I am a shattered vase. Typical bruises painted on my skin like Starry Night. Yet I blossom under the lunar glare, a translucent vessel exposed, just as petals who bloom

The butter on your morning toast. Honey in your tea. Fuzzy reflections of a candle. A type two ticonderoga pencil. The discoloration of an old books’ pages. Sunlight dancing through the trees. Hearts of daises. The lines you don’t dare cross on long winding roads. Unpredictable, confusing, Warm and sweet. I am a girl, But on these pages, I am more. I am sunlight. I am a flame. I am comfort. And apparently– Butter on toast.

--Dawns violet edges Elizabeth Taylor's Cleopatra and the deep purple robes of Caesar, Roman indeed of Roman blood, sweet blood of sanity drained in a bacchanal. The bruises the morning after. With the wilted violets and lavender of Sappho take the flowers of Ophelia and kiss her frost-bitten lips. Decadent plums and grapes, not half as sweet. Fleeting glow of lightning and ecstatic acid club lights, but only the Light of Truth shines through a cut amethyst, icon of calm, t

Sometimes the foam regurgitated by the crashing waves. And others, the soft tear stained pages of a beloved novel. I am the chipped coffee mug, the kneeling woman’s veil, the polaroid film. The solid lines on the edge of the road, Or the untouched peaks of the Great Smoky Mountains in January. I am the charging cable supplying life. Yet also the tangled headphones that I haven’t touched since that song made me cry. When I’m regretful I am the used tissue at my brother’s wed

A pearl hiding in the deep depths of the ocean, with seashells being washed ashore. Meanwhile, swans sail silently across the surface. And daisy petals delicately dance— with no blizzard in sight. A candle is lit as I watch the flurries fall from my window. The warm wax under the flame slowly melts downwards while I lay under my lace trimmed blanket. Hunger waves over me, craving vanilla cupcakes with sweet vanilla frosting swirled on top. Later, my notebook waits for my th

Her legs were like roses on a pull-out flower bed, she bloomed when opened but when closed, she’d be dead. Her voice was a river, laughter bubbling like a steam, and roaring like a current every time I heard her scream. Her sweet nothing whispers drifted like trash in the city wind, text messages read like letters from a sinner to the sinned. I felt a connection, but her hair was cable wire, love was a game of telephone, but I was playing with a liar. But all the world’s a st