portfourleafclover

[portfourleafclover]

Writer’s Statement

I like to write in rambling, train of consciousness paragraphs. My writing becomes disjointed because I write it in starts and stutters, then piece it together afterward. Writing short stories driven by narration is fun for me, but I usually draw on my own emotions or fears or subconscious. I hope to flesh out characters in the future, so I don’t depend on an internal monologue. It’s difficult for me to pin down the details of characters because even as I write about them they begin to shift. I want to focus on poetry and develop an ability to directly and clearly push my psyche onto paper.

[portfourleafclover]

I am tired of my memories. Rememory.

unknown

I don’t know where this quote came from. I found it on the notes app of my first iPhone. I’ve always suspected that my dad wrote it in his own notes app, and because our accounts were connected, it showed up on my phone. No matter how it came into existence, this quote has stuck with me. It feels solid, somehow. I often find myself dwelling on the past, on what I should have or could have done. It’s nice to entertain the possibility of wiping those negative memories clean. I want a clean slate, to re-experience and relive my own life and rememory my memories.

[portfourleafclover]

Coma

The air was thick with humidity, sightlines wobbled in the heat. I sat on the curb. It stretched in a lazy roundabout, the cracked tarmac sealed by freshly poured tar. When the Kansas summer sun bore down on that tar, I walked across it and let it squish between my toes. I lived in a patch of suburbs; designed when the urban population decided that it didn’t want to be urban any longer. A cultural yearning for seclusion paired with a distaste for commute created a twisted tangle of roads rounded into cul-de-sacs and dead ends. Eventually, the cities will reach out and reabsorb those who tried to escape them. The cities will reclaim the cul-de-sacs and dead ends and all will return to normal.

My road was designed to slow traffic. If the street winds in confusing loops and turns it becomes more trouble than it’s worth to disturb the neighborhood. The meandering streets had wound around me and enveloped my developing mind with a sense of security. I curled my toes into the tar. The pitch black goo molded to my feet. I should have looked where I was going. Accidents happen. Children get hurt. My pitch-stained feet flew backward through the air. I didn’t see the car coming. It’s safe to assume the car didn’t see me either.

I’m not sure how long it’s been. Human beings are so thoroughly sight oriented. It became easy for me to lose time; I had no way to distinguish sunsets from sunrises. I’m not sure if I’m a child anymore. Right after the accident, my hospital bed was enveloped by the overlapping voices of faceless people. They were deafeningly loud. My friends were curious; they asked why I was sleeping or if I could hear them. I knew they were my friends because they sounded young. The voices of my friends rapidly blurred together after they left. They became a conglomerate, severed from any semblance of identity. I haven’t heard from my friends in a while. My world has become thick and black. Like tar, like pitch.

Sometimes a voice will break through the humming and whirring and beeping of machines. A faceless voice will reach out and attempt to reabsorb what it lost from me. They are grieving a girl who is not yet dead. The first stage of grief is denial. Voices in denial hide tense, tight tones, full of unspoken fear. The second stage of grief is anger. Angry voices attempt to hide from me, but they filter through bared teeth in hushed, frustrated tones. Angry voices play the blame game. The third stage of grief is bartering. The voices who bartered for my life believed that all could return to normal. They struggled and strained to change reality. Eventually, the voices stopped bartering. The fourth stage of grief is depression, words that wobbled like the sun. These voices held back tears. I don’t know why they bothered. It’s not as if I could see them. As of now, these faceless voices are not in denial, nor are they angry or desperate or wobbling. They have forgotten that I can hear them. I’ve become a psychologist of sorts, a sounding board for the grieving. The final stage of grief is acceptance.

[portfourleafclover]

Recurring Cultural Themes: Ramblings of the Displaced

The grass is always dead on the side of the highway. Nothing lives on the side of the highway. Dust kicks up on the side of the highway. Cars are quiet, then loud. It’s no surprise that so many animals meet their demise on the side of the highway. Many things die on the side of the highway. Maybe I’ll die here too.

My steps are slow and dragging. Deliberate but exhausted. I am a hulking, shambling figure. Cars zip past me, going just slow enough to catch my silhouette, going just fast enough to miss the details. Drivers and passengers alike turn their heads as they pass, as if giving me a face makes me a more comprehensible monster. Humans want to know their nightmares, want to name their nightmares. They want to hold their fears in the palm of a hand and say “I am bigger than you.”

I’ve spent my life a recluse, or an introverted individualist if you will. That came to an end, as all things do. My home has been ripped away from me, torn and scavenged. I was once a hermit, now a traveler. I want no part of this concrete charade, but I've been forced to play a part. My new role, my fresh identity, is that of a drifter. The old role was cast away with it’s home.

I used to despise being seen, avoiding cameras with the tenacity of a zit infested teenager. Dodging reporters and hikers and journalists was a constant battle: every snapping twig was a shutter click. Every step I took had to be concealed and coordinated. Now, there is no need to hide. No one wants to stare at a drifter. Staring is rude after all. There is no longer a compulsion to photograph my misery.

Huge mechanical beasts roar past me, trucks and vans and hybrids. They have stolen my home and inherited the earth. I am accustomed to them. You must grow or shrink to fill the space available to you. I have shrunk to make room for the mechanical beasts. 

There is an acute pain in my knees. I can feel the joints creaking with every step. My skin is loose, ill-fitting. The pain is ricocheting from my knees to my back to my knuckles. Time is catching up to me. I’ve been around awhile. This wandering could be called a midlife crisis, but I think I’m past that point. I am a ghost of what I once was, and the world is as well.

Human beings are so desperate. To hold their fears, to reach out and grab at the dark and unfamiliar. They consume the unfamiliar. If there’s one thing they do, it’s consume. There’s an overturned SUV. Suitcases litter the side of the highway, innards oozing onto unforgiving concrete. Thick straps hold a family in suspension. Their innards do not ooze onto unforgiving concrete. A world which creates opportunities for suffering must provide safeguards to prevent its severity. Who could need so many clothes?

My silhouette is on one of the t-shirts. A simple black shape on bright yellow fabric. It’s a snapshot of my youth, a relic of a time before I knew how to dodge the cameras. A hulking figure, but it walks with purpose. “Bigfoot Crossing.”

[portfourleafclover]

Wildflower Honey

My eyes are honey brown; Wildflower honey. The first time I saw wildflower honey; It was at the natural history museum. Not everything there is ancient, though the old stands by the new. It’s easy to blur our view of wildflower honey, Easy to skew its age, As it has existed throughout our whole lifetime, Steeped in history and modernity. Will future generations observe pinned insects as we observe those trapped in amber? Will they rely on creatures suspended in air, in sap, in animation, in time, to remember what has been lost? Will we remember what has been lost? Humanity is torn between the desire to ruminate in the past and barrel towards the future. We are trapped by indecision, suspended in amber, Steeped in wildflower honey.

[portfourleafclover]

Family Legend/ Dialogue

Mountain City is a ghost town. It didn’t use to be a ghost town, but that’s just how things go when your community relies on a nonrenewable resource. Mountain City sprung up about two and a half miles from the Rio Tinto Copper Mine. My great uncle Richard didn’t live in mountain city. He lived right by the mine. He owned the mine. At the time, Rio Tinto Copper Mine was still seeping with metal. The rock face wept blue copper, and the land still held value. The mine’s heavy machinery crushed and chewed through copper ore with a desperate hunger, the blue element transformed into mashed potatoes before it could be refined by yet another machine. These contraptions consumed electricity like a black hole consumed light, and since Richard’s land provided a shortcut between two cities, he resolved to strike a deal with a power company. If he allowed them to run power lines through his property, they would give him free electricity. Flash forward a few months: Richard had kept his end of the deal. The power company hadn't.

Richard sat at the table. There was only one table in the house, with stilted tilted legs and warbled knots in the grain of the wood. He laid his palm out on the ridges. An electric bill rested on the tabletop. Incessant drumming filled the room as Richard made an attempt to vent off the waves of rage. “goddamned, good for nothing-” he slammed his palm on the wood and curled it into a fist. Richard pushed away from the table and walked out the door. He carried himself with determination, shaking rage replaced by stone cold resolve. Richard disappeared into the bitter desert night for an hour or so. The air, still and quiet, shifted to make way for the smoke curling off of Richard’s cigarette as he mosied back to the shack and eased the telephone off of its hook. The rotary dial turned and sprung back, turned and sprung back, turned and sprung back until Richard had dialed up the number he was looking for. Soft ringing, then a click. 

“Running Rabbit power, this is Anne, how can I help you?” a cheery woman chirped from the other end of the line. Probably a secretary. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Johnson,” Richard said. “We have business to discuss.” He thumbed a stark white business card, sharp corners worn away just slightly. At this point in her career, Anne was completely unfazed by the vague and dramatic tone of the people who called Running Rabbit with complaints. “And who is this?” She asked without missing a beat. "Richard Reinhart," he responded. "I'll patch you through." The business card he was holding bore a resemblance to Mr. Johnson’s uncomfortably bright white teeth. The last time Richard saw Mr. Johnson, his teeth were snarled into a wolf's grin.

"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Reinhart?" Johnson asked. His tone was short, making it clear that he possessed neither the time nor patience to deal with a bumpkin's shenanigans. "I was only wondering how much money you've been making off of the folks down in mountain city," Richard said. He tapped the ash off of his cigarette. "Or any of the other cities your power lines stretch through my land to reach. I was only wondering how valuable those power lines are to you."

"From what I can recollect, Mr. Reinhart, we came to a satisfactory agreement in our last conversation." The telephone line crackled Mr. Johnson's voice, but his words were clear. "Your mining operation would be provided free power in exchange for our use of your land." Richard clenched his jaw and drew a shaky breath. "See, I know you fancy yourself a city slicker, and might not be able to understand the intricacies of a mine," He said. Richard paused to build anticipation for what he was going to say next. "But I don't think you're that stupid. I think that you've weaseled your way into a loophole." Johnson chuckled. "We told you that we'd cover the mine, and in all technicality, we have. Just because we aren't covering the entirety of your operation doesn't make us monsters, you're still receiving a discount after all." "A discount isn't what we agreed on Mr. Johnson. If I'm not reimbursed for my troubles, then you won't have business in this area for much longer"

"Is that a threat?" "I hope you can understand, Mr. Johnson, that mines like these use a fair amount of dynamite. I've been looking for a way to make use of some of the excess. It doesn't take much to take down a power line, for example." When Richard finished speaking the line became silent, save for the soft crackle of static. "I'll take care of it." Mr. Johnson said. He sounded as hurried as he had at the beginning of the call, but far quieter now. Richard couldn’t see Mr. Johnson’s face, but he was sure it had paled severely. It probably matched his teeth, his business cards, and the bills his company had sent to Richard. He probably regretted giving Richard his business card.

[portfourleafclover]

Character Sketch

Celine Holt

AFAB Nonbinary person

they/them

21

 Milwaukee, Wisconsin

6��0’’   133 lb

Gray

Black hair, pixie cut.

Very pale, prominent dark circles under eyes. Prominent cheekbones. Narrow, pointy nose. Long lower lashes, shorter upper lashes. Birthmark on neck, spindly fingers, trim frame.

Unmarried

Blue house, old and kinda big. Room is green. They want to repaint it but can’t shake off the nostalgia it brings. Attic room, medium size window. Spends a lot of time in the gazebo/greenhouse. About to move into apartment in midtown. It’s tiny and would need a roommate but has nice windows/view

Alya (mom) is a neurosurgeon, Clark (dad) is an illustrator. 

Pet ferret

USPS worker

GED/ High School Diploma

Bad shoulder (old baseball injury)

Showers after shift. Short showers (5-15 minutes.)

Wakes up EARLY. Morning person and night person. Usually gets 6 hours of sleep, feet hang over the end of her twin size bed

Likes to wear blue and white pinstripe pants with post office uniform. Silk scarves. Lowcut t-shirts and dresses. Lowcut button-up style shirts. Leather jacket.

Safe driver! Drove drunk once when they were 18

Dispatcher Jeep for routes, bicycle.

APWU

Find somebody sweet to settle down with and marry

Delivering love letters, making friends with dogs on the route. Writing movie reviews.

When her best friend’s shitty ex wrote an apology letter, it just happened to get lost in the mail. Whoops! Has trouble understanding boundaries. A little too optimistic, has trouble putting herself in someone else's shoes. Stubborn.

Protective and loyal, would throw down for a stranger in need. Good at communicating. Romantic as hell.

Return to sender mail, little dogs, pants that are just barely too short 

Romance movies. (West Side story, rebel without a cause, etc.)

David Bowie, The Beatles

I’m using a picture of Audrey Hepburn because she has similar features to those I was thinking of when constructing this character

In the future Persnaps!

Celine is a tall nonbinary postal worker in the 1970’s. They’ve got a crush on a radio host. They listen to her every day on their route. 

A steady, happy relationship. An understanding of their own identity.

Place them in a period of time where their existence isn’t accepted or understood, create misunderstandings between them and their crush. Internalized transphobia.

[portfourleafclover]

Three Part Perspective

I’ve got one purpose in life, and that’s to scare the shit out of people. I gain insurmountable, immeasurable joy from my job. The pure velocity of their feeble bodies forces them into fight-or-flight mode, despite their being strapped firmly in place. Terror overrides reasoning and they can’t comprehend how false their peril is. My fun is short-lived, however, because piss pooling at the floor of the cabin follows their screams. Sometimes they spew chunks; soupy vomit splattering unsuspecting passengers behind and passerby below. At least the piss splashes back onto them on the loop-de-loops.

Dingy booth. Crackling loudspeaker system. Sweat and humidity mingling to become one soupy mess in the air. This job is just a way to make ends meet until my band takes off. We’re a cyber-industrial-punk band. We’re changing the game, but the world isn’t ready for us yet. Until they are, I’m stuck working this dead-end job that is So beneath me. I check to make sure everyone’s seat belts are buckled. I pull the safety bar over their heads. I press the loudspeaker button and say “Welcome Mad Hatter’s Coaster™, enjoy the ride and try not to lose your head!” Then I pull a lever, wait two minutes, and the cycle repeats.

Wooden planks. Metal supports. Cars locked onto rails. Physicists do all the math because they don’t want anybody to die. The car will stay on the tracks. I’m not going to die. Physicists have done all the math so I don’t die on this rollercoaster. Oh my god. Oh, my God. Was that vomit? Holy shit, that was vomit. Somebody threw up. This rollercoaster made someone throw up. Do physicists account for vomit? Did they consider that? Am I going to throw up? I can still get out of line- wait- I’m at the front of the line now. I am getting into the rollercoaster that I will NOT die in. This is NOT just a metal coffin sending me rocketing to an early death. Oh man, we’re starting. Oh boy. Here comes the first hill. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

[portfourleafclover]

Taken from a 1971 Hallmark calendar, 1970

[portfourleafclover]

Food Poem

Food

Can be absolutely terrible.

Food

Can make you want to retch

and vomit

and throw away your whole fridge.

We eat so many meaningless meals,

Because

When you get down to it

Food

is what keeps us alive.

It is a vestibule for energy.

We attach meaning to it

because it is human nature

to search for meaning

in something without it.

I've eaten a lot of shitty meals

maybe there's meaning in our nutrients

if there is

I've lost sight of it.

[portfourleafclover]

Poem About Place

Grandma always loved Perkins And we loved grandma. So last Thanksgiving (her last Thanksgiving) (we all suspected it would be her last Thanksgiving) We ate at Perkins (Cracker Barrel was too long a wait.) An older woman served us I worry she was losing her own thanksgiving A family left waiting I suspect it won’t be her last Thanksgiving (But she was losing it nonetheless.) Three square tables pushed together. The Thanksgiving special Was nothing special But grandma loved it And we loved grandma.

[portfourleafclover]

Storm front rolling in

[portfourleafclover]

Issue Writing

When Rita Ora released her song “Girls” in early May of this year, it incited backlash from the LGBT community. Kehlani, Katie Gavin, and Hayley Kiyoko, (who has been nicknamed “Lesbian Jesus,”) voiced their concerns through Twitter.  The song primarily stirred up controversy over Rita's disputed bisexuality. Unlike Hayley, Kehlani, and Katie, Rita Ora was not 'out' at the time "Girls" was released. Despite lines which hinted at Rita's bisexuality, like "I ain't one-sided, I'm open-minded/ I'm fifty-fifty and I'm never gonna hide it," listeners saw the lyrics as homophobic. Many people felt that the song fetishized wlw (women love women) relationships from the outside perspective of a straight girl. As Katie Gavin, AKA "MUNA," put it, "The songwriting world is full of people that feel entitled to write about communities to which they do not belong." During the post-release backlash, Twitter users pushed Ora to clarify her sexuality, essentially forcing Rita Ora to out herself.

Rita Ora wrote the song to represent her journey of self-discovery. Katie Gavin, Hayley Kiyoko, and Kehlani were not protecting the LGBT community, but gatekeeping it. Hayley Kiyoko claimed that "A song like this just fuels the male gaze while marginalizing the idea of women loving women... I don't need to drink wine to kiss girls; I've loved women my entire life." Essentially, she believes that Rita Ora's song would negatively impact the LGBT community. The lines Hayley was referring to were "Sometimes, I just wanna kiss girls, girls, girls/ Red wine, I just wanna kiss girls, girls, girls/ Girls, girls, girls, girls, girls." The lines were perceived as a way of saying 'tee-hee, getting tipsy makes me want to kiss girls,' when it is more likely a retelling of how Rita first discovered her sexuality. Rita Ora released a statement apologizing for the song, but Cara Delevigne, who has been rumored to be an inspiration for the song, quickly came to "Girls"' defense. She said:

"I don’t think it’s right to say her experience and her words are wrong. If she hadn’t ever felt that way and it wasn’t true then that would be weird. She’s being proud of something and saying it… she’s being honest about something she may not have been comfortable before. I don’t think it’s wrong... And people disagreeing with it and being vocal... no one’s ever going to fully back one thing that happens. There’s always going to be a conversation. It’s why you make music, or movies, so people can talk about it. That’s the point." 

This controversy will likely be short-lived, but it reflects an important question within the ever-changing LGBT community: what does it mean to be queer? Rita Ora's personal narrative incited anger, and where you stand depends on whether or not you can accept that each queer person's experience is unique.

[portfourleafclover]

Playlist

“Citywide Rodeo” by The Weepies

There were a finite number of artists I listened to when I was younger. The Weepies sang in soft voices, and I attached those sounds to hazy memories of my youth. Though I didn't understand fully what The Weepies were saying, they were reassuring. "I know that you think you're not good for anything / The world makes you feel so small," claims the first few seconds of the song. The lyrics are sad, but they're sung in a comforting way as if the singer is trying to let you know that you're wrong about yourself. I liked the soft, reassuring voices that The Weepies used in "Citywide Rodeo". Later, I liked how the lyrics are almost stream of consciousness, but establish a setting which they can reach out from.

“Dream A Little Dream of Me” by Ella Fitzgerald/ The Mamas And The Papas

“Dream a Little Dream of Me” by The Mamas and The Papas is tied to feelings of comfort and safety. When I was younger, I struggled to fall asleep, so my parents burned me a cd with bedtime music. "Dream a Little Dream of Me" was a song I always looked forward to; it was as if I couldn't fall asleep without hearing it. I associate this song with the warm and secure feeling that you will be loved and protected even while dreaming. "Dream a Little Dream of Me" uses hyperbole to express the all-encompassing effects love has on a person. Although the song is about romantic love, it expresses love outside of its physical manifestation, and just how bright the world is when you have someone you love in it.

“Losers” by The Belle Brigade

While going through my semi-rebellious phase, I listened to a lot of The Belle Brigade. Their music was louder and brasher than what I had listened to before, but it didn't forsake the lyrics for the loudness. I liked how "Losers" carried the same lessons as some Weepies songs, but didn't mince words. The lead singer renounces her doppelganger, in this case, her past self by talking about what no longer matters to her. When she said, loud and clear, "There will always be someone worse than you / Sister don't let it get to your head / 'Cause you won't be on top of the world so long / In constant competition" My ten-year-old brain found a new sort of peace. In my search for identity, I kept trying to prove to myself that I was better than someone else, and "Losers" provided a much-needed wake-up call.

“Bohemian Rhapsody” from Greatests Hits (1981) by Queen

The first time I heard it, Bohemian Rhapsody rocked my socks off. Sadie only had one cd worth listening to, and it was the Queen Greatest Hits album (1981). Bohemian Rhapsody was the first song on the album, so whenever we dance-jumped too vigorously, the cd player would reset to that song. I have so many fond memories of going to Sadie's house just to listen to queen. I heard this song was written about Freddie Mercury's diagnosis with HIV. When I listened to it as a kid though, all that mattered was how fast I could incorrectly recite the lyrics. Bohemian Rhapsody uses narration to construct a storyline that is positively engaging to listen to no matter how old you are.

“Re: Eat Your Brains” by Jonathan Coulton

"Re: Eat Your Brains" by Jonathan Coulton was the height of comedy for me at one point. The song is about two co-workers sharing a formal (although a bit one-sided) chat, but one of them is a zombie. I'd like to thank my parents for not murdering me after an 8-hour car ride of "Re: Eat Your Brains" on repeat. It was literally the only song on my iPod. The lyric "We're not unreasonable, I mean no one's gonna eat your eyes" absolutely cracked me up, and it still does. He juxtaposes the calm tone of our lead zombie, Bill, with the actual words he's saying.

“Ain’t No Rest For the Wicked” by Cage The Elephant

"Ain't no rest for the wicked" engages you with a funky beat, then pulls you into a plot which sheds a sliver of light on the nature of poverty and crime. The plot starts in the first lyric with "I was walking down the street when out the corner of my eye / I saw a pretty little thing approaching me." "Ain't no Rest for the Wicked" immediately wraps you up in a story that shifts voices which all come from similar perspectives. I used to blast it in the car with my dad. We would take long drives with the windows rolled down, and at one point I had every word recognized. Listening to this song still reminds me of feeling the wind on my face and being able to truly connect with my dad.

“Merry Happy” by Kate Nash

"Merry Happy" by Kate Nash is about recovering from a breakup and discovering your self-worth. Kate Nash uses repetition to remind herself that "I can be alone, yeah / I can watch a sunset on my own / I can be alone." She's trying to find worth in herself as an individual, and not as part of a larger unit. During middle school I struggled with self-identity. Though I didn't go through any romantic breakups, I didn't feel comfortable being alone with myself. Now, listening to "Merry Happy" I'm reminded of how far I've come and how far I will go. The lyrics "I can be alone, yeah / I can watch a sunset on my own / I can be alone" now remind me that I can do something that I once couldn't: I feel comfortable being alone with myself.

“Drive it like you stole it” Sing Street Soundtrack

During fall of my sophomore year, I watched the movie Sing Street. It was a coming-of-age movie that hit me just at the right time. I, of course, immediately downloaded the soundtrack. "Drive It Like You Stole It" is about standing up in the face of oppression, taking back control of your life, and never looking back. I applied it to my tendency to prevent my success. The lyrics remind you that "This is your life / You can go anywhere / You gotta grab the wheel and own it / You gotta put the pedal down / And drive it like you stole it." "Drive it Like You Stole it" utilizes imagery to showcase the metaphor that you have control over your future, just as you have control over a car. The song fills me with determination and willpower.

“I Like Giants” by Kimya Dawson

I listened to "I Like Giants" by Kimya Dawson and immediately burned through the rest of her songs. I'm not sure what the song means, but I think it ties together insecurities and a need to be insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Her stream-of-consciousness writing perfectly matched my rambling, tangled thoughts. Sometimes, when the world felt too overwhelming, I would chant "I am just a speck of dust inside a giant's eye / And I don't wanna make her cry." Kimya Dawson helps me escape when I need too and helps me marinate when I need to, and this song is the apex of that.

“They Can’t Take That Away From Me” Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong

This song is about a love snatched away by uncontrollable outside forces. "Can't Take That Away From Me" is romantic in nature, but it expresses all of the little ways you can love someone. Anecdotes are used to point out the intricate mannerisms of a person who won't be forgotten soon. This song was the send-off at my grandmothers funeral. It was incredibly grounding to hear at the funeral that even though she's gone, I've still got my memories of her and "They can't take that away from me."

[portfourleafclover]

Progression

Gnawing sadness Stupid sad, the kind that leaves you sick inside Dead-eyed Skin greasier than cafeteria pizza Glasses slip from the sheer volume of it Pimples dot your forehead Prone to fits of crying Find something to be miserable over Unbelievable levels of hormones Loneliness sets in, want someone to hold Wracking pain, like you've held your piss too long Something must be wrong Before thunderstorms, the air is thick with humidity, Charged with electricity Discharge mimics period blood Until it doesn't Warning signs appear in hindsight But hindsight is 20/20 And it doesn't get the stain out of my underwear.

[portfourleafclover]

Storm Front Rolling in

The world feels warmer

Under a green-orange sky,

Colors are tinted sepia.

Birds flit by, nervous motions holding purpose.

I think they needed this rain.

I needed this rain.

The sun is a tangerine

Slouching from the eaves.

Humidity, summer sweet,

Yet salty as the sea,

Slow moving.

Slow down for me.

[portfourleafclover]

Words

Words I want my words Any words, i want words. silent, i'm silent. Hate silence. feels lonely and wrong and empty. Hollowed, hallowed. Words help. i want the words back. Used to be so good with my words. I've been losing them. Losing myself? or just a past perception Turned expectation Of who i think i was and who i think i should be. Alphabet soup. I don't think it ever has the full alphabet. A jumble of letters Can't find any words