firestorm

this is the season of fire after the summer of water and i know now that my flame burns inside strong as ever singing my worth and i have words to spit out into this world, hot heavy and sour

this is the season of fire and how can i explain that to you

this is the season of fire after the summer of water and i know now that my flame burns inside strong as ever singing my worth and i have words to spit out into this world, hot heavy and sour and i don’t have to hold in my passions or self, i don’t have to go with the flow, i don’t have to mold to my surroundings, i get to say this is me! this is now! this is what im going to do! and they have to listen – do you hear that part – they have to listen

because if not, i will burn this place down.

and i am a flame unseen perhaps but so were these wildfires before they were spotted, as they were already burning tree into ash and

i am not unspoken, not anymore.

i have words in my hands and my fingertips and i won’t let you put your melancholy into my skin once again, i cannot agree that life is all hard because isn’t it not about happy or sad or good or bad but rage and emotion and expression and madness and

i don’t know why i feel like the candles in my room speak to me at night but they whisper in conspiracy to me

reach reach reach

and they tell me

higher and onwards and grab what you want and be who you are and let the doubt burn burn away.

words etched in tree branches, dark soot in chimney grates, and theres a heat in myself that feels a bit like anger not quite too late

i was water running smoothly hiding deeply speaking softly and now i wonder

what if i set myself ablaze

if i let out my stories will this world burst into flames

or will i finally let all the pressure escape.


so, my old washing machine would electrocute you slightly, lightly, brightly if you put your hand on the wash button and so instead, we never did laundry

and yet when i tell this story to KC he tells me of sticking the knife into the toaster when he was a child and being shocked over and over again, not understanding why he felt what he felt, not knowing to stop

and

one time i sat on a dock on a lake in montana, watching lightning and storm clouds brood and cover half the sky, shocking the water, as thunder boomed and on the other half of the lake

only sunshine.

if i covered my left eye i saw chaos and firestorm and if i covered my right eye, i saw a summertime lakefront paradise, sunshine and birdsong

do you see

the fire and water dance together

it isnt one or the other

but while the water absorbs your sorrows and holds your chaos and softens the darkness

the fire bursts from the sky and the ground, runs through sockets and toasters and up trees and out mountains and

through my

very

veins.

-h

 

art by Vykky Gamble

 

eclipsed.

moon covers sun and

sun’s passion disappears, sorts itself into scatters and fades into night. daytime is nighttime is daytime and we gather to witness the undoing of the universe, briefly, brightly, lightly

moon covers sun and

sun’s passion disappears, sorts itself into scatters and fades into night. daytime is nighttime is daytime and we gather to witness the undoing of the universe, briefly, brightly, lightly

meanwhile the ant cleaning crew crawls into the dishwasher, and the mice roll around inside the couch, chewing pathways, settling into nestling bundles

the squirrel jumps up the roof, towards the window, peeking inside, squeaking away.

and, yes, as Moon goes to cover sun, the spider crawls into emilys hair

and all the humans gather to stare at the sky, backs turned to the ducks in a perfect row along the streambank.

we crane our necks to see Moon punish us for placing bootprints on her perfection

as somewhere, a bat flies into a house and hangs to rest inside the light fixture.

we twist our bodies to witness Moon sculpting the waves

and

turn away from the mice in our living room, the bats in our halls, the spiders in our heads – we watch the magnificent unfold and forget its already unfolding – we pause briefly to gasp yet the animals recognize the normality of totality – night is day is night and whether we watch or not, the mysteries continue.

 

 

let me tell you about my morning

when i write my own story i am both storyteller and main character. i get to rewrite my narrative. i get to choose how to see my world. i get to open the door and invite you into my universe. 

im back in salem and it sits the same, like a heavy weight in my stomach or a feeling of being a little unseen: a window partially covered, a light flickering, a cloud over the sun. this morning especially so, though my friends are in the kitchen, though a breeze drafts through my room, though the day sits waiting for me to fill it.

something about overcast days and creaky houses reminds me of stress and sadness and im worried im letting so many people down. two days, two separate situations saying ‘im annoyed’ and ‘you messed up’ and im too sensitive for this. when people criticize i want to hide, i want to crawl under hills, i want to wrap myself in blankets and curl into a corner and feel the feelings and so this is what i do. with tea and candles and telling myself that when people are upset that doesnt mean im wrong. when people are upset, sometimes they are wrong. when people are upset, sometimes i need to take my own side

and the drama in me sighs out, oh, sometimes living is like being an open wound and the salt is just text messages and casual words and how can i be so thin-skinned in such a gouging world

and with that sentiment, sad-me leaves my little cocoon nest and goes into the kitchen and makes myself breakfast oats and tells the roommate whats on my mind. there was miscommunication with someone and its this whole thing and when i explain it he laughs and its so clearly ridiculous and i crack a smile and then we are both laughing and —

its not all so bad.

its not all so good, the world, our nation, right now. but its not all so bad, not all of it. not laughing over oatmeal and not me, at my core, and thats the fear, right?


so, anyways, ashley wrote about blogging and i tell you these little stories, these morning oats and little thought because

i write so that i can speak, i write so that i can see the words i need to read. when the world pulls me down and im confused and tense and disappointed in myself, i get levity. i get agency. when i write my own story i am both storyteller and main character. i get to rewrite my narrative. i get to choose how to see my world. i get to open the door and invite you into my universe.


i dont know if you see me as i want you to – as a friend, as someone doing their best, as someone constantly apologetic and trying to be kind, as a thinker and brave doer and all the things i like to think i am. i do know that i dont like opening up out loud, i stutter and sweat, i avoid hard conversations, and this is why i dont like telling someone off for blaming me for someone elses mess and this whole situation, but anyways, when i write

i want you to see how the corner feels when i wrap the yellowstone-green blanket around my body and sit in my too-tight hat from b and feel the comfort of walls close and warmth closer. i want you to see how i sit and think and ask myself whats happening in my heart and slowly the sun filters through the broken white window blinds onto the scratched up wooden floor and how i start to remember all the wonder that is me and my life. i want you to taste the oats as i eat them slightly under-cooked in a too-hot-to-hold metal bowl and talk through my mouthful to caden and the sun shines a bit more inside me too.

i write so i can feel, and so you can feel it, too.

-h