Xanadu
 

She grabs my throat with a loose grip, her grasp slightly restricting but sweet. She whispers in my ear— chanting. I can hear her but it has a different feel. Carolina. She gleams in rays of light— leaving the diamonds to reflect. Smiling at everyone she sees. Carolina. The little girl trapped in its shiny plaque, only now, she's not so little. Growing with the length of the chain except it's getting shorter while I’m getting taller. Carolina. Its arms wrap around me like

Have a good time. You gotta love a good time. Middle of the summer, on the beach, glass of coke in hand, now that’s a good time. Convertible Porsche 911 Turbo S on an easy Sunday post night out, that’s also a good time. The first notes of Nikes by Frank Ocean, sitting beside a lover you know won’t be here long. That’s a great time. So many good times I can’t even pick a favorite one— concerts, albums, cars, people. It’s all a blessing. Good times are my favorite bles

I belong where you exist — where the tide folds into itself, washing ashore a string of memories. The water hums with the thoughts you left behind, your faded voice caught in the loud waves. I want to be the coral at the bottom of the sea, beneath the ocean currents, Anchored. but, alive watching the light bend and break above me. I want to be the seagulls above, Watching the water shift and shimmer, circling the surface you once held. The wind carries your name, a

And when the shoe finally gives way— it does not fail all at once. It loosens, thins, forgets its shape. What once held the foot upright becomes something barely worn, a reminder rather than a shoe. A reminder of all the work you put into shaping the shaft that was once hard. The shoe dies quietly but quickly. The demand of the shoe quiets, no more breaking of the shaft, looking to be broken in and sewn. It starts to let you sink, Gravity is starting to weigh ⸺ The sh

I travel the world, yet I see nothing but glimpses. I’m left with teeth marks from carelessness. I’m covered in a powdery chemical and my cold metal core is protected by a dented, scratched, red plastic shell. I breathe life into one, but I run out of life myself. I wait for the next inhaler to replace me. All I do is give. All any of us do is give. I only bestow my breath so another can safely jog a lap. Our lives are put on a counter. A little plastic screen showing how m

I sit slumped against your pillows, fur faded, one eye wiser than the other. Every hour I stay silent, I am a decoration— quiet, creased, collecting dust and daylight. By night I am a guard dog, brave in the blue hush of your room. I have swallowed your worries for years, stitched them into my seams. You hold me close, I hold your secrets closer. When the world feels wide and loud, I stay small and soft— a steady heartbeat made of cotton and courage.

Bruised mannerism expel from my mouth as I speak my mind to peers. Yet, a side the size of a nebulae peeks its head. A side smooth as lavender, a side as caring as purple yarn. Sides only those close to me see. Around the unknown I am a sea urchin, defensive and introverted. Resembling a neglected nightshade — no one dares to touch. Though, curious hands will lurk, fresh eyes observe me— watch me. These eyes will toss me away like beets in a meal. Make me feel unappreciated

I clamp down on your hair with a firm, unforgiving grip–the need to be perfect. As I go through each strand, you hear me singing in your ear, creating a smooth glossy masterpiece. As I move swiftly through, I burn the natural locks that God constructed. Day after day, night after night, I am constantly being used. You look in the mirror—hating what looks back at you. In the morning, you plug me back in,smelling the scorched follicles. Destroying who you were– producing

Between muted saltbush behind my grandma’s house, you spread, tendrils unfolding in thin, bare tangles under the pistachio shell ground. Above you add vibrant flavor to the plain salad of flora, plenty more appealing than the desert toned prickly pear. While the New Mexico cedar and dropseed grass thrive alone, you rely on the nurturing hands of those who crave your scorched leaves.

Peaking out, seeing your reflection every pass— the home of the delicate floating speculum. Sash— holding it so it does not move. The freeing feeling of looking out, I do not know what you will find, but you watch the world move silent or loud. I shield you from the outside guarding the coziness of your home like a protector. Reflecting the clouds as the sun bounces on the pier glass. Clearing the eyes of a fragile soul.