low lights

I’m not sure I’m homesick
so much as starved for a place
that I’ve never known
I’m cherub faced like them
I guess
but not so much stone
too much blood and guts
and hair and muck
In CVS yesterday a lady
followed me around the store
I had a book bag on
and an apple watch
but I still looked “ready to
stole”
at work I’m always smiling
always grinning
tongue pressed up against
the ceiling
weird muscle to flex
but that’s all I know
at night I grind my teeth
and clench my fist inside
my thighs and
I think about Prague a lot
the bridge and the absinthe
and the cartwheels on the Petřín
that might’ve been real freedom
I think.
I watch my movie in a loop
and think of the low-lights
in the storms
the islands made me
this loud
you know
too much sun
and salt water
swallowed and up
my nose
– Sheila C.
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of me

i follow your voice to the morning

and i rise with the small hairs

on the crook of your neck.

i stay there

and sit quietly

with your freckles.

they mirror mine

but i don’t think it’s strange..

someone must’ve

pulled us apart

before we were flesh.

– sheila c.

bedroom in florida

over time

i have tuned

my eyes to see

(erroneously, maybe)

a subdued wash of color

seeping through wood

as a loaded metaphor

a symbol of my own

martyrdom

or emotional state..

he was not any different

the brushed alabaster

the wooden bed

the “yellow,

like fresh butter”

the contrived meaning

of his growing

affection

how else could i explain the

pulsating snap

of our spines ?

the impression on

a coat of wet

paint?

he is-

he was the bedroom in florida

i hung him in the hallway

and

i don’t think of him often

but great softness

is haunting

even when shuttered

and discounted.

 

– sheila c.