Author: poetryfest

tightrope like tied note twirl tangential tiptoe
talk | your reflection
through
twisted spun spiderweb stuck-fly absurdity
scam | your reflection

escape glass enslavement soft falsehood of fractals
fear | your reflection
is lying, what

monster haunts this fun-house body
trepid mask manifests so malevolent
my-flesh does-not be-lieve it-self, bursts
skyscraper hoarding horizon like anti-hero
like the mirrors must be mistaken-

miss taking handfuls of half-full hungry for high school
bathrooms where I held the toilet seat how I wish to be held-
fingers stretched towards the accuracy I believed to live in my throat

hoped I only saw a stranger in the corner shops of Paris where

a boy who kissed me like I was glass
like I was the New York skyline
like the space I took up was beautiful, told me

“you can see Belgium from space they had so much
money from the slave trade they
lit up the whole country” said

“there are no stars in the city
but I like looking at you”

and I was sorry for the space I inhabited and I believed
all the fallacies I met eye-to-eye
all the reflections that lie and do not lie
and I stood in the mirror and wept
for the puddles we walked through and knew-

they were just
piss

i am not tall or thin
i do not have blonde hair
i am not intelligent
i am not a good cook
or have a green thumb
i can not sing
i do not read or watch TV
i have wrinkly skin and graying hair
i carry an extra 20 lbs.
i have a smile that is not mine
i do not wear tight clothes
or have cute shoes
I drop things
I walk funny
I am what I am not
I am not what you want anymore

LAAM

One local seated between two visitors
she is curvy, they are thin.

The one on the left asks the one on the right,
do you do yoga?

Leaving the one in the middle feeling invisible,
outraged because the answer is yes,

but she’s not asked.
Her favorite studio is deemed untraditional.

The other visitor’s suggestion is taken
because she is traditional.

Neither visitor is aware of the harm, but
she reminds herself that she is beautiful.

Inside
and out.

Casket enclosed and pitch-sharp nothingness,
Hearing from every living being’s breath.
The ones close to home and ones far away,
All coming as my bright light faded away.
Sad music that played, and tears that mourn,
Had none of them arguing, any more.
Instead of yelling and screams, some of which last,
There is only mourning with all men in black.
Sensing the presence of a loved one nearby,
Vibrations of sound softer than a butterfly,
A speech was made through awful whines,
And memories went back in time.
Delusions were lived and bodies revived,
More speeches also arrived.
And when the music stopped, the tears slowly faded,
My casket remained closed, and I was unaided.

I am the lucky one. The streets here
don’t crack beneath the sky doesn’t
burn with fire, and I walk unscarred
while they stay, buried in the dust of
a land that won’t let them go. I live
for them. For the children who play
with shattered glass, for the mothers
whose eyes are too tired to cry. I live
for the lives they can’t have, the life
stolen from them with every breath
they take.

They ask if I’m safe. I say
yes, but the word feels
hollow, like something
stolen from their mouths.
How can I be safe, when
they are still there,
holding onto hope
beneath skies that never
forget what it means to
suffer?

I take their names with me
a prayer on my lips.
I carry their lives, their
dreams, their breath,
across the distance. And
I will live for all of us,
even when I don’t know
how to carry this weight.

I call my mother, her voice trembling
on the line. She tells me I should be
careful, that I shouldn’t talk about it
too much, that it’s not my fight, not
with my passport, not with my
privilege. “Don’t make waves,” she
says,

“Don’t risk what you have.”

But how do I stay quiet,
when the blood of the land
is my own?
How do I stay silent, when
I think of the families just
like mine, just like us, torn
apart by borders, by
bombs, by history’s
weight?

How can I be safe, when their
faces fill my thoughts, when I
imagine their children playing in
the rubble, instead of in the
fields that I used to play in? How
do I not speak, when all I can
think of is that this could have
been us that it could have been
my family left in the dust of a
forgotten world?

I carry their voices, and
sometimes, I hear my
mother’s too, warning me to
protect myself, but her love
feels small, shrinking in the
shadow of a world that won’t
let go of its grief.

I will carry their weight, I will
carry their stories, even if it
means I can never rest.
Because what is safety when
you live with the fear that you
might be next?

n the corner of the museum’s foggy hall,

Mannequins stood on display surrounded by caution tape
three mannequin heads peeking down the hall, their faces twisted,
eyes blank yet watchful, frightfully captivating,
Each smile was a grim echo of something forgotten.

Do you see us? they whisper,
The secrets we hold, the stories untold,
those who dared to gaze too long,
now part of our eerie collection.

Once, they flourished on a grand display,
where glamour masked dark ambitions,
but now they linger in the shadows,
a siren’s call to the curious and brave.

One evening, a wanderer approached,
drawn by the heads’ haunting gaze,
What lies beneath those forced smiles?
Their stares daunting, I could feel their souls.

Unfazed, the wanderer reached their hand out. To feel the skin-like material on their faces.

The heads shook. a chilling gasp,
Stay with us, dear friend,
and let us show you our world.

In an instant, the air grew thick,
and the wanderer felt their skin start to crawl,
as the heads twisted into wicked grins,
eyes gleaming with a hunger for souls.

You wanted to see, didn’t you? they sang,
Now you’re one of us, a figure in our play,
lost among the whispers of those before,
a new face in our cursed image.

With a final shiver, the room fell still,
the heads stood silent, now even more alive,
waiting for the next curious soul,
to step closer and join their eerie collection on display.