it’s quarter after midnight.
above, blocking needlepoint patches of stars,
a whale swims across the sky.
she does not belong there.
held up by fog instead of ocean,
she inhales deeply the thin, cold air,
and hopes for the best.
i wish i had lungs
that could hold fresh air for half an hour.
blankets of fat wrapped warm
around the muscles of my body,
voice slow and soft,
heart strong enough to pump blood for miles.
you are my ocean
& i am not a whale.
i only wish
i’d brought a stronger boat.
because we are so stupid,
they think that
our weak hearts whimper
in our uninspired chests,
that our blood pools like sludge in our feet
and fingertips,
that we aim our smiles vapidly
at our front-facing cameras
to capture nothing more than our
narcissism.
because we are so stupid,
they give us no choice
but to fight like dogs for atlas’s position—
unpaid,
but it might look good
on our resume.
(now, because we are so stupid,
we wonder why our backs hurt,
why it’s so hard to enjoy the world
when it’s resting on our shoulders, why
no matter how brilliantly our resumes sparkle,
our phones sit
dead
on our desks.)
but
b
a retraction of august's horoscope by aprilwednesday, literature
Literature
a retraction of august's horoscope
“aquarius, you have fallen in love with the storm again,”
the august horoscope reads.
it is almost—but not quite—correct.
for the sake of astrological accuracy
it might be revised to read,
“aquarius, you have fallen
in love—” (this part
may remain)
“—aquarius, you have fallen in love
in the sticky heat of summer,
the air as damp as your skin,
heat rising from the tarmac
of this flat swamp town.”
or perhaps, “aquarius,
it will not feel like a storm.
there will be no lightning bolts,
no thunder. there will be no fire
under your skin.”
“aquarius, your love will be
words to say to your reflection by aprilwednesday, literature
Literature
words to say to your reflection
i am a collection of dust and stars,
blue luster in a sea of inky void.
i am a tongue licking lips, clicking against teeth,
shaping sounds that matter.
i am the lightning that explodes in purple storm clouds,
four miles of haphazard beauty
on a lonely night.
i am the sea in autumn, still holding the warmth of a summer of sunlight,
though the air outside is cold
by now.
i am the snow at 6am.
i have not been touched, not stepped on. my surface is smooth as glass.
i am the snow at 6pm.
i am still beautiful.
i am the sound of rain just before sunrise
on a sunday morning.
i am the swirl of cream in a coffee,
blossoming and unfolding like a
to read an alethiometer by aprilwednesday, literature
Literature
to read an alethiometer
dear moonfaced girl,
pig heart beating slow:
passion has never made the blood flow heavy
through your stagnant veins.
even the clean country air pollutes
your lungs
and tracing orion in the pinpricks up above on a clear night
won’t make your eyes look any prettier.
lies come easy on your tongue,
greed in your fingertips,
narcissism in every glance into the smudged silver
of a mirror;
you write poems
as though applying makeup--
everything in its place,
kohl thick,
mistakes purposeful and perfect,
all picked based on your mental snapshots
of the prettiest boys and girls.
you learned so well to show the world your beautiful portrayal
of s
i.
my father is an electric guitar.
he spends most of his time displayed on the wall,
shining when the light hits him just so,
hovering in the perfect spot.
he is not new, but neither is he old--
used so rarely, he would gather dust
if he were not kept so pristine.
the only music i’ve ever heard him play is
carefully rehearsed,
read off a page of inky black notes,
perfectly following the italicized instructions,
con amore
bruscamente
diminuendo.
i never understood the words,
but they nestled in my psyche anyway.
i always thought he would be better if the instructions
were tossed away
and he was played instead of displayed,
his stri
a lie that tells the truth by aprilwednesday, literature
Literature
a lie that tells the truth
please don’t write me as a ghost girl,
all blurry lines and faded features
that caricature themselves into the minds
of those that think they see me--
i am not a canvas.
my life is not a blank sheet for you
to paint your vision across,
and i have no wires in my bones--
you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the light
just so,
like a kaleidoscope of clever quirks
and tragic backstories;
i am written in the words i discard
when i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look,
you can find me echoed back to you
in my all time top five favorite movies.
i am the way my hands hurt
when i get nervous;
i am the urge to speak italian,
even though