pink silk

is that what it looks like?

underneath the shade

swaying palms fronds in your eyelids

while the melancholy lingers in silence

i can leave the heartache behind

i can grow new limbs

and teach you where to break them

so i can’t run beside you

you can have this present

and I will take the future

you can have these memories

and I will mute yours

rolling pink silk like the sunset

you wandered into something

and it’s my fault

after all

I left a crack wide open

you barely had to pull back flesh

to find the pulsating mass

that made breaths into gasps

and lust into longing

– sheila cordova

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untitled 04.09.19

is there anything worse

than losing your arm

before really learning to use it

right before you pump the blood

to your fingertips

and break the space between them

squeezing time in your grip

i could hold you

I could

I could breathe you in and

let out a gasp so deep

it would rattle your bones

but what good is a gasp

in the likeness of a dying breath

what good is strength

in this weakened mess

I am the cherry blossoms

in the park we’ll never see

I am the summer

you will never know to be

– sheila c.

no,

no, I didn’t want to give you this

so I won’t

instead I’ll let the words fall on the page

as they may

with heights outstretched and unpunctuated

standing still in white space

waiting for a grasp

I’m thinking.. you’ll remember this pause

 
it’s not what you thought,

is it?

 

– sheila c.

train car

there’s a saying that goes

you’re not really from here

until a train car of people

collectively ignores your sobs

    

I am peeking out

from under a vegan fur parka.

I am confirmed.

there is no acknowledgement in sight,

not for two transfers

and a 2 minute walk.

    

I glance down at my hands

tears are a welcome moisture in the winter

    

I was once dead

an overzealous ER

(albeit heroic, sure)

brought me back from an enveloping warmth

I told myself that anything

from that day forward

was a gift

    

the gods have since tested this gift

    

some days, I wake up to a cattle prod

in my lungs

and I am out of breath

and I am terrified

And.. I don’t think I can blame you

or this city

    

– sheila c.

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.