poems & fragments

Do angels ever disappear? I know about fallen angels; the ones that stray from the path of God. But do they ever just vanish? I have dreams where I have wings, but I never use them. I remember the sound of them. Not the graceful flapping one might expect from flight, just a kind of rustling, the feeling of feathers brushing my skin. When I'm awake, I hear buzzing. Incessant buzzing. I want to rip out the wires. The ones threaded through my jaw, my spine, the backs of my eyes. They're always buzzing. My therapist talks about grounding, but I'm already nailed here. Crucified. Tethered by wires to this earth. Feathers keep falling in the corners of my vision. I like to think I believe in God, just not the tangible kind. Not the kind that would come save me. Not one I could pray to. Just some cold, uncaring, incomprehensible thing loosely tied to my creation. I wasn't made for anything. And now I'm here, in front of this screen, talking about boundaries and breathing techniques when what I really, truly want is to dig into my back with both hands and pull the wires loose— coil by coil— until there's nothing left tethering me to this place. This body. I think angels should be allowed to disappear.

i have created senseless gods from the wreckage of my wanting, carved altars from my hollow ribs and prayed to everything that promised to keep me breathing one more day. the first god arrives with shoulders squared, hands stained with ambition's ink. "i am purpose," it declares, "let me fill your empty hours." so i bow and work and toil until my fingers bleed, until my spine curves and purpose grows thin as paper before crumbling into dust the second god comes with paint-stained robes, canvas skin and music for a heartbeat. "i am art," it sings to me, "let beauty be your salvation." so i create and craft and pour my soul into a thousand works until the colors turn to gray, until the words refuse to come, and art turns its face away before fading into silence. the third god arrives with gentle eyes, warm hands that promise forever. "i am love," it breathes against my neck, "let me be your reason." so i fall and soar and burn in the bright ache of devotion until the warmth becomes routine, until forever feels like never, and love becomes a stranger before walking away with someone else's name. the fourth god comes laughing, arms outstretched, a chorus of familiar voices. "i am friendship," its many voices call, "let us hold you up together." so i lean and share and trust in the comfort of connection until life pulls us different ways, until silence fills the spaces between, and friendship stretches out of reach like a tree climbing skyward. the fifth appears in the dead of night, wearing future's uncertain face. "i am tomorrow," it promises, "let hope be your anchor." so i wait and plan and dream of better days around the corner until today becomes a burden, until the future feels like fiction, and tomorrow loses its shape before disappearing into maybe. the sixth stands last, tiny, trembling, flesh and bone. "i am the body," it whispers meekly, "let survival be enough." but even fear of the final darkness cannot compete with the weight of watching every god abandon the temple of my desperation, and the body grows heavy with knowing that it, too, will falter. now i sit among the ruins of my homemade pantheon, wondering if the silence means i have run out of gods to make, or if perhaps the only divinity was the hand that shaped them knowing each would vanish.

i've found myself at times muttering your name feeling the shape of it on my tongue over and over like a tide that doesn't know how to stop returning you were here once, only briefly but long enough for the shoreline of me to shift and settle into new contours now the wind carries different scents now the waves drag your syllables back to me each time i forget to guard my mouth your name doesn't answer it just clings, the way salt crystallizes on driftwood on sea glass in the spaces where water retreats you are far so far the horizon swallows any trace of your voice but i still speak to you like sand holds the memory of each retreating wave there is no reply only your name your name your name and all this water between

i have tried to collect shadows like pressed flowers, each one slipping through my cupped palms before i could name it. the pause after your laugh. the weight of your glance; a glance that might have meant nothing-- or everything. there is a kind of joy that arrives without permission a flicker in the chest when the light bends just right around someone who is looking elsewhere. always elsewhere. i am fluent in almosts; the humming of a song stopped mid chorus. a hand lifting towards mine then falling away. even the hurting is sacred. even the leaving feels like staying, in some strange unspoken way. to see without being seen is its own completeness. to love without being loved back is not emptiness; some love lives better in the marrow, singing its one note song. asking nothing, expecting less. i think of a place, nowhere in particular where it's enough to just be. to share breaths, not always words, not always touch. but to live alongside. a quiet kind of knowing. and if i've only just now become real-- if the last few years have been the first ones i have lived-- then let them be enough. even if you were only passing through. i loved the way the world shimmered with you in it.

Nicole, I Remember You in Mud and Wood Chips - You loaned me a pencil before you knew my name. That was enough. By recess you were kicking gravel with me, and by the next week, you had bloodied a boy's nose under the slide because he held hands with someone else. I cried on the playground mulch, and you sat beside me like it was your heartbreak, too. You said nothing. Just stood up and went to find him. I still taste the rain in that plastic water bottle I left in the cubbies for days. It tasted like that for the entire rest of the school year. We drank from it anyway, you and me, after making soup from dirt and sticks, your blonde hair stuck to your cheeks. I still know your address. I wrote it on envelopes with lopsided hearts when I moved away in fourth grade. I don't remember if you ever wrote back, but I kept sending them anyway. Once, years later, I saw a girl with your same sun-bleached hair, same style, same lentgh, and my chest filled up like it knew something before my head did. She turned. It wasn't you. Of course it wasn't. The last time I saw you was the day of the classroom prize table. It was the end-of-week reward thing, do good, get tickets, spend them on junk. I always wasted mine. Stickers, gum, useless plastic rings. But on that last day, I saved them. All of them. For what, I don't know. Some kid bought a bear the size of a chair. You spent your tickets on candy, two slap bracelets, and a purple eraser shaped like a cat. You looked at me and laughed. "Why start saving now?" I didn't answer. I think I thought if I didn’t spend the tickets, I wouldn't really have to leave. We didn't hug. I think I wanted to. But we'd already said everything we knew how to say.

the herald - the herald returns with the weight of his frame, speaking of battles but naming no name. he stays but a moment, then passes on through, his presence a signal, his words always true. we know not his story, nor where he has been, only the silence that follows him in. - the soldier - the soldier moves forward, though no one looks back, bleeding for names that would not bleed in his track. he carries their weight, though they gave him no name, and marches for causes that burn just the same. he’ll fall where the flags mean nothing at all, a ghost in a war no one dares to recall. - the bard - the bard walks light, but his songs carry weight, his rhythm shaped gently by timing and fate. he speaks in pulses and the burden never breaks. his past in his pocket, his heart still awake. he gathers the lost by the fire with a tune; a friend to the morning, a friend to the moon. - the jester - the jester keeps going, no matter how grim, in every rough he will find a gem. he dares to laugh first, to shatter the dread— a beacon of jest when the rest bow their head. the echo of joy in a room gone still, a fool on the surface, but all iron will. - the prophet - the prophet sits restless, his words sharp and bright, naming each fracture, each wrong dressed as right. he sees what’s ahead with a furrowed brow, and curses the fire we’re all feeding now. his words are a cavern, each echoes a plea every word is warning, and we let it be. - the king - the king wears two crowns, one honest, one torn one for his subjects and one for those scorned. his temper is quick, not drawn by the right but sparked when the world denies him its light. he shifts with the court, each crown finely manned; and without the queen, the kingdom would sink into sand. - the chandler - the chandler burns slow, but the warmth always stays, a glow in the dark of the rowdiest days. he knows every name, every drink, every song, and somehow, with him, you feel you belong. the light that he gives never asks for return, he’s the flame that reminds the candles to burn. - the thief - the thief has stolen the hearts of those sincere for he is beloved, but never quite near, his compass points strangely, not guided by fear. he scoffs at your games, your laughter, your ease. beloved, perhaps, but quite hard to please. his care is a fortress with gates seldom wide you’ll never quite know what he hides inside. - the warden - the warden guards walls built high in his name, each brick marks betrayal, each stone set in flame. he counts every slight like a shepherd counts his dead, he keeps all of his enemies housed in his head. he speaks with restraint, his silence can sting a keeper of grudges, a patient old king.

the air is the color of drowned paper, and the trees lean in as if they are listening for something. there's a hum beneath the soil, a faint and constant pulse like the ground is thinking of swallowing. you walk through it, the field that never changes, the sky stitched shut with gray thread, your breath tasting faintly of iron. your hair clinging to your face. far ahead, a house it was beautiful once, but the wood is now grey and the residents are gone. you could go there. you could knock. spiderwebs bloom in the corners like lace, catching the thin, gray light that drips through an old roof, each leak keeping its own slow time. the back seat of the car still smells of cigarettes, that warm, stale paper-smoke woven into the upholstery pine needles scatter across the porch, drifting in from the trees that lean too close, their resin scent mixing with rainwater. the floorboards creak like they know your step, and the wallpaper peels back in curls to watch you pass. but the dream is long, and the door has been waiting for years to open for you.

a summer afternoon in arkansas, the air thick and humming with heat. you and i wandered through the junkyard, dry grass brushing our ankles, the sound of wasps cries in the distance. we were exploring; picking our way through rusted remains, when we stumbled upon that old, rusty fridge. it seemed alluring, angelic in some way –as if promising a small, tight space to hide from the rest of the world, just for a bit. i crawled into the gutted-white box, lying on its side in the junkyard weeds with rust gnawing the edges, the weight of countless summers etched into its frame. i wanted to hide, to feel cool metal like a shield – like armor. until the door clicked shut and i lay still, held in sudden dark. then came the dread—a thick, slow creep as i pressed on the door, no give, my little fingers scrabbling at the smooth, unyielding surface, and my breath small in the cramped dark. i was swallowed, held in that hollowed-out thing with stale air sticking to my skin. i shouted, my voice quivering, a tremor of fear that echoed into the hollow silence you acted swiftly, and before i knew it i heard footsteps crunching fast, leaving me buried there, the metal walls a cold embrace as the heat grew thick. spider webs, like fine lace, brushed my face, the sensation made me shudder, but even so, their silk threads were my only company, weaving a quiet shroud around my frail limbs. i saw the faint glimmer of golden light escaping through cracks in the seal— i heard the hum of summer through the walls, the dry grass rustling, the wasps, their buzzing a distant, nagging reminder of the world beyond, relentless as a ticking clock. i was a buried thing, still and waiting, heart pounding. i listened for footsteps, felt sweat pool like ghosts' hands on my back, felt my every breath grow smaller as i sank into the thick, stale air. i spent thirty minutes in that coffin made of metal and rust, curled up into a ball and fighting back tears, wondering if you would ever come back, and what my fate would be if you didn't. when you returned with an adult in tow, prying and then lifting me out like a rediscovered relic, i stumbled back into the light, gasping for air, and i felt it—the way bones remember being buried, even in the sun.