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Middle Name Mag - Thursday, March 31, 2016

Thick against my feet are the sounds and the webs I try not to weave. I hear so many different sounds, none of which are mine. The faint cry of my feet are numbing; have you ever seen a butterfly with no wings? Have you ever seen a painting made with no paint?

 

That hollowness that I have grown so accustomed to throbs against my shoulders; if you listen close enough to Bowling pins falling you will hear that hollowness.
if you listen close enough to the grandfather clock, you will hear this hollowness.
If you cry soft enough, you will hear the hollowness.
I is a letter I have forgotten how to properly use.
I used to pretend that my heart wasn’t filled with valves, that it was filled with a thick liquid and it beat to wash itself clean.
The last thing my mother asked me was whether or not I believed in god and the last thing I told her was that god didn't seem to believe in me.

 

My mother is a Christian that righteously believes that black is the devil's color and suffocates herself with strings of hair etching shapes around her head. Her mantra is that everything must be righteous, what had gone so wrong?

 

Have you ever fallen asleep on a bay of leaves? Have you ever felt the mangled touch of claws on your face? Have you ever felt boulders in your stomach?

 

I have tried to hard to blend in among waves and leaves I don’t know how to see; I moisten and dampen pages of words just to wash out the words I have never meant to type. The trees get sullen every once in a while; I hear voices in the trees just to realize that I speak to myself poetically.

 

All I know for love is the slight taste of a hand growing these vibrant little red flowers of the sides of my temples. In my cheekbones. Out hollowed under my eyes. Sleep is a casualty which is something I heard that nomads believe.

 

I pound my leather against the veins of the leaves. They are moist with my tears and globs of spit tossed form my mouth.

 

It has been weeks and I hope that I am dreaming; I just don’t remember anything other than salt tasting this sweet.

 

I hope nobody approaches me. Soft weeks go by and Vericose veins erupt on the sides of my thighs; I trace mazes on them in my free time wondering how blood can be so potent.

 

I hope I am well.

 

- leyka simran

 


 

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