Kayla Benson
Pegasus
The smell of gasoline floats around us,
While the sound of the engine slowly grows louder,
Muting any other noises nearby.
Rotting trees lay where
Deer rustle about in brush.
The halo of petrol is above our heads.
You reach your farmer’s tanned arms around me,
When your enormous, veiny hands
Overlap mine-
Interlocking your coarse fingers into my delicate ones.
The engine begins to sound
Of disturbed black birds
Crying out for sympathy.
The corona of gasoline
Dances around us.
Its hoof gently brushes against the other,
When I grasp one of the silver wings.
I lay my head back gently onto your chest,
Covered by your green Carhart sweatshirt,
As I rotate around to see
Your glimmering hazel eyes looking back into mine.
You grab the chapped rein to turn
back to the direction of home,
After the sun has begun to settle down,
Leaving the sky the color of coal.
I follow you back to your room,
Deer mounts lined on each tan wall,
Glaring at us, in jealousy,
Where you leave your brown boots out.
We lay side by side,
On your tractor sheets,
And under your favorite gray blanket,
When I fall asleep in your arms.
Poetry
Pleiades
My green Earth darkens to black ash
in your coma.
You’ve left me without
a star to orbit.
Your chilling atmosphere numbs me.
I don’t think I’ll see the sun again.
There are no shadows without sunshine.
It’s gravity.
I no longer can bask in the sun’s warmth,
nor swing between Venus or Jupiter.
You left craters on my surface.
All the stars have a reason,
but all you are is a void in an obsidian sky.
I see melancholy clouds and mirthless azure.
on a cold moon.
Polaris
I hate not knowing why you
keep me at the edge of your transit.
Maybe it's because there’s another girl,
who’s got the blue eyes of Neptune,
or maybe it’s because I’m just too gypsy.
Maybe we see different constellations,
or you can’t see our twinned stars anymore.
I wish you would explain this broken syzygy,
so I could migrate for you.
I want to travel worlds with my hand in yours,
but I can’t imagine that now,
because of your elusive orbit.
You face the opposite way,
and radiate a cold atmosphere
when we are near,
like how the moon cools the earth.
Your galaxy seems farther than it is.
Just the thought of you, living a better life,
eloped and a father,
without even a thought of me-
it's like Pangea, breaking me into pieces.
I hate how you leave me in space
without a North Star to follow,
always tempting me to wander
between the light of distant stars.
He was a tall, countrified boy,
with nothing but an honest personality to offer.
She was a young and optimistic girl,
who, at the time, did not realize the consequences of
Sudden Thought.
They were just acquainted,
did not speak or greet each other.
They only had friends of friends,
leaving only hope to grow throughout.
Later, he started becoming more familiar,
learning the way she twirled in the rain,
learning how she looked up at the stars,
when none could be seen.
Soon, he begun to grow attached to her,
then, eventually, confessing his thoughts.
“No, at least not right now”, she began.
Things slowed-
there was less talking,
less communication.
“I have been missing you,” he mentioned,
unexpectedly, one day.
Once they had confessed to one another-
things that came deeper than the heart.
They admitted phrases only lovers would.
She stayed engaged with him,
dreaming of their futures as perennials.
Slowly, he became unsatisfied.
He hid his disheartenment poorly.
She persisted, still working to save the rose.
But there seemed to be no reason to
nurture the seed they planted,
knowing the thorn’s cut.
The leaves fell,
leaving the stem and thorns to
wilt to nothing.
She woke up to the stench of weed,
seeping in through the window.
The inconsistent bursts of light
from the Taco Bell ad board outside her room,
flashed through the stained motel curtains.
The cotton sheets of the bed grew cold
where he had laid beside her,
only once.
She reminisced the grim night before
at the cheap pub,
where the leather seats had been tarnished.
He had stood with a simple white t-shirt and jeans,
alone, under the crappy lighting, having some drinks.
They had stayed at the local, risky motel for the night,
unbeknownst to the rest of the outside world.
He departed the next morning,
before the orange sun had brightened the sky.
She proceeded to her sad, enclosed office cube the next day,
where a note was left on her desk.
“I found out about him already. Goodbye, Jennifer.”
Perennials
Creeping Thistle
Metamorphism
I am a lion in a petting zoo,
trapped like a butterfly in her lifelong cocoon.
God did not craft me to be tamed,
He carved me to let me loose,
to thrive in a place where
bars give way to clean air.
This cocoon will shatter,
if I am not released into
the southern atmosphere.
I am trapped,
trapped like an overgrown tomato
in a cage built for grapes.
How can I roam in this place,
where sheep consume
the profits of my pasture?
I am a nonnative species,
in a place where I am told to
bloom in foreign soil.
How can the sun be the biggest thing in the galaxy,
When I am the Milky Way myself?
I need to get out of here,
To a place with
Circinus and Andromeda.
I must flee,
To the place where apple trees
Blossom ripe mangoes.
God, take me to the place where
I can be let free.
Thawing Out
My body frosted
like the icy, desolate hills
that were planted into this Earth.
Give me time to defrost.
The golden sun cowers
beneath our tortured galaxy,
while the barren bergs
breathe our air.
Your roots are intertwined
in my veins.
Your thorns gouge
cutting fingers into my skin,
leaving my blood to run ultra violet
to the tips of my toes.
Your fruits and dirt
seep through my pores
like a vibrant tattoo.
I feel the sour nectar
fill my lungs.
Let me have myself back.
My body is illuminated
by your gold beams
that run from
my mind to my stomach.
I am blossoming into your
beautiful flaws and
blinding lavender mischief.
To Await the Summer Time
I awaited summertime
with green eyes
so the sun would brown my arms
and devour my winter woe.
It would rip away my hunger
and tug my fascicles dry,
leaving me empty.
My orchids faded in the shadow
beyond your wandering prints,
for you to anchor to a mushroom.
Give me
more water,
more light,
more dirt.
My roots can only grow so far.
Three cycles in
and my leaves will drop,
screaming for the rays
to redirect themselves.
The fall solstice
will offer a remedy
that will quench
my torrid thirst
and my forget-me-not cool fantasy.
Eternity
She sits atop the hill
For the final glimpse,
Her glands- empty, dry
Onto her knitted shoulder side-
Droplets spew to glacial crest-
For footsteps will fade
Into the mat, absences gather-
Along tall hay-
A pappus strolls- upon gaiety
And weeps delight-
All alloy into opal,
Fruitful zephyr-
Our mantles rejoice-
Whilst the last lament
Halos commute here-
As long as eternity-
Elements
Newshour
Praises slip through your lying lips,
as the honeybees zip out of the hive.
I waltzed in the brown-tinted water and
questioned why it wasn’t blue like last time.
Barricades separated me from the water,
sooner than I could learn how to save it.
You shaded my eyes at the sight of it,
and dropped debris below our feet,
letting Her arms scoop it away,
before the big men in machines could notice-
You told me they were helping us,
but it was just smoke coming up.
High voices screeched on the tv,
when you plucked an eagle,
to string feathers on my temple,
closing my eyes.
Instead of soup, I slurped down your tales
of princesses locked in towers.
You and he sucked down cheap wine and jokes.
“Go to bed, darling. The news is on.”
I went to bed watching storks choke on black air,
escaping from the water covered in a tar film,
I swatted at the air, in my sleep.
like you would do to the bees.
We went back the next day, or the next year-
(time just slipped inside itself)
and the men were still sucking Her ripe virtue out
like a bee sips the sweet nectar-life of a flower.
I coughed again,
hoping to sort the soot from air in my lungs.
We left our garments and sediments on Her edge and parted ways
from Her salty bath and their intense drilling.
I returned again, alone.
I laid out on Her crest
as she held me in her gentle arms
and swept me out to sea.
Lenticular Portrait
I sit below your infinite wingspan,
attempting to admire your illuminated manuscript,
displayed in the sky,
while your messengers flutter amongst each other,
calling love songs to your crests.
As the sun returns,
I forget the cruel winter nights
and instead sit in her presence,
warming me,
before she’s gone.
I hug my legs to give you more room.
My eyes close for a second
as your glow snaps into a pink radiance.
You prop the trees’ arms with a crisp gust
that sucks my eyes dry and my lungs clean.
I try to replicate your sounds,
but every time I do, a car whirls by,
my mind wanders, searching for something
that never sums up your eternal beauty of
your ever-changing portrait.
Your heavenly arms blanket my eyes
as I resist your pull.
I know my efforts are futile.
You turn to gray night, and
I’m set adrift under your anesthesia.
Ice Age
Hoarfrost shriveled inward
against a skyline
that rejected a warm heart.
Greens that the sun held
were lost below a
white lid.
Life hides beneath the Earth,
while I harvest amongst the firn,
waiting for a blossom.
My eyes were shut
when the violas were mixed with marigolds
and the oceans froze.
I had no strength,
For the green shelf
timbered my back.
It froze me in the ice,
under the Earth,
before I could escape.
Rapture
If the world folded in, I would borrow an airplane.
My mouth would be filthy
with American soil and rinsed
so there’d be no trace of its blood.
I’d stop at Joshua Tree, the badlands
and the Grand Canyon
and kiss away each scar in Niagara,
so at least I would be able to hold all of it.
People would sit in their homes
and watch it all fall apart,
but not before I could taste
the salt of each sea.
I would tug at the strings that stood her upright.
It would be me against the galaxy,
stars spitting their iron,
burning me with their flares.
I would return the plane
while mountains shed their last crust.
Somber lives would return home,
and I lay down in the sea to give Her my eternal lust.
Homage
I
Lightning filled her –
like Summer in her Lungs
and Sailfish rippling Currents –
her Beating Heart.
Her Home –
a place of fallen Trees
and rusted Trusses –
cannot heave her Starred Sky.
She searches for a Galaxy –
with arms wide enough
to embrace her Feathery Nest.
She finds Corsica – awaiting to the left –
Her Burrow was furnished.
She breathes in Western Zeal –
exhales the Thunder.
The Sun – debuts.
II
Over the horizon – she Split,
shadow cast upon the House –
its darkest hour
faltered on the ground.
Murals – in chalk and glue –
glisten in refracting Light –
pining – made her
believe Infinity.
She collected August Air –
her next days – annual.
To remain close – she folded
her Frame in clothes.
She grasped Her Hand –
trudging through Trees –
out of breath,
capturing the Last Moment.
III
She sits atop the Hill
for the final glimpse –
her eyes – empty, dry –
knit her Shoulder Side –
Droplets spew to Glacial Crest –
for Footsteps fade
in the mat – Shadows grow –
with tall hay –
She strolls – upon gaiety
and weeps Delight –
all alloy into opal,
Fruitful Zephyr –
Her mantles Rejoice –
whilst the Last Lament
Halos commute here –
for Eternity –
IV
Her feet land in Western Skies,
clearing the Abyss Golden.
It shines and – Blind –
her Eyes were never strong.
Holiday wind Swelters
through Valleys –
melting Spirits and Ceramics –
now craving Milky Sleet.
She holds the frozen Hill –
her hands fixed,
yearning for ones she left
and their Frosted Nights.
Unaware of Polaris – Corsica
left her Length to Stars –
no Storm to pull her
back to Snowfall.
V
Arid days lit the Ground,
making her run
before flames
engulfed her feet –
She assumes a choice –
Lava or Snow – Snow
freezes her mind to Solidity –
a Desert Realm.
The Warmth has degrees – faltering –
between Despair and Death.
She consumes Frozen Souvenirs –
remembering the Chill.
She let the Sun glow on pale arms –
falling Rain into
Corsica’s Hammock – sweet
submitting to the Sun.
Orange, Yellow, Green
When I picked daffodils from my backyard,
I was fascinated by the way spf
left rainbow ripples in the water,
how airplanes arrived
at their destination every time,
when they were held by thick clouds and blue air,
if the fire would burn me if I gave it my hand, and how I could
feel this “America” between my toes-
coarse like sand and smooth like tea.
I skipped over sewer drains
in fear my weight would cause the lid to collapse.
I closed my eyes at the top of the swing set and
imagined myself all grown up,
living in a big city,
like someone famous once told me.
I inhaled clear air
that felt like the blue sky.
I tasted the water from the bird bath,
after the storm plundered through, and
I watched the mother wash her babies
delicately with her soft beak again.
They’d shake and fly into a dirty tree.
Why waste the bath,
I wondered every time from my window sill.
I laid on my stomach,
letting the grass
color my white shirt green,
counting the stripes in the sky.
I tasted sticky, sweet clouds
and let them get stuck to the roof of my mouth.
We, the children,
joined hands in our circle,
let our stomachs loose and our thoughts wild.
Our teachers attempted reading our names,
to separate our identities,
like a sifter sorting the ocean.
That ocean was the town pool
that each of us learned to swim in.
We kept it like it was our own.
We chased each other through tunnels,
under swing sets and straight into the
wilder corners of our imaginations.
I smelt the wet blacktop beneath my feet
and smiled wide with my gapped teeth,
because I knew we were in the rain together.
My head on her shoulder,
we listened to the birds sing their songs,
like an ode to our friendship.
Our families were the same,
farmers raising crops and kids in the same town.
Our furrows ran parallel.
School felt like masonry.
I was one of thirty bricks within a wall.
The clanging recess bell
was the only thing stopping us,
as the teachers yelled to stay away
from the old lady’s home by the fence.
Still our minds delved into the earth,
and our arms reached wide,
trying to hold all the stars in our arms.
They wielded a golden ruler over us,
and rapped our knuckles
when we raised our hands.
Yet I blossomed,
like my sacred lupines,
surrounded by developing daffodils.
The sun hit us sharpest in our morning.
I was tended for the way my hair fell,
and the way my hips curved.
I saw the way the boys had sprouted, and suddenly
they believed their tall stems
could wrap around my leaves.
We toured the capitol, and when I asked
why we couldn’t just live without one,
the rotunda echoed my name.
The world was still at peace,
and there was no blood as
mercy distilled the air.
Our palms were white.
Peace was dandelions in summer,
but the halcyon flew away.
Our airways closed, and the world followed suit.
Contagion
masked our mothers and suffocated our grandfathers.
Our middle school confusions were forgotten,
like echoes in dimmed corridors.
We touched and ate through computer screens,
to maintain the pantomime.
Our siblings forwent recess, the playground
where we molded our true selves lay barren,
and I gave up
the star-gazing nights
that I shared with my longest friend.
We went to high school.
Our unbreakable small town bond snapped when
the world spun too fast on Her axis.
We became foreigners behind our masks.
They poured rocks through skylights
and battered the thresholds of the buildings.
Ice pierced windows, threatening a blizzard.
I watched from behind the warmth of the stove,
wondering why they brought the storm.
The sky faltered against the red sun,
making me squint, when the sun overtook the sky.
I saw late June madness. I searched for clouds.
I watched fireworks light the sky before me,
red and blue shaking my earth,
fighting for the sky I called mine.
When this town joined
in bands to wreak a ban on us,
on me,
I crouched to hide from the sun.
What suffering would go on
outside this impish town?
On my fourth day of summer,
I sought rain in the desert.
But, like the storm, the thunder is the show
and it’s the sinister lightning,
coming frantically from the ground,
that scorches the earth.
I waited for rain in an empty sky.
We watched the ground as plants wilted.
The next morning, daffodils rose.
We held fire in one hand
and a pen in the other.
The fire could burn down the city in seconds,
but the pen could soothe each side,
taking us back to our
swing set days,
where I didn’t know
if I was holding the hand of a girl raised
under a withering sun or torrential rain.
We could burn
the whole thing,
and, maybe this time,
it’ll destroy the rotted frame,
but children will be left
to burn inside this house.
He imagined silhouettes of children on seesaws,
and I saw a fire light in his eyes. I realized,
there would be no time for extinguishers.
Our ancestors expect us to mine gold
when they’ve dynamited
the world to ash.
They laugh at us like we’re toddlers
offering dirt pies and imaginary friends,
as if we’re fixated on rainbows.
We cannot speak
without splattering
words like paint balls,
smashing through our front doors,
rising through red air
and bursting from the rain.
We paint like oil on water is our only composition,
and see our variation,
and yet pray for them to sink.
We have dried our feet
on the other’s back,
as though he were only worth drowning.
I watched the old mother rinse herself
in the dirty bath,
watching her fledglings scatter below her,
chirping out of rhythm,
and crying out for sunlight.
She let them be one with the ground.
I wanted to return to my nest,
to feel the raw air
slide down my throat.
We try to hold the surface of the ‘real world’,
but they pluck our hands off
like the legs of a spider
get plucked by a boy,
ripping away its web
and its clutch at once.
The ‘real world’ is the firing of constellations of nerves,
synapses lighting as often as stars regenerate,
forking the path of our dendrites.
It is the secret alliances
that linger in sewer drains,
tied in a red ribbon to a monster’s wrist.
It is the supreme anesthesia
that numbs our tongues
every time we try to swallow it.
The real world has been placed in our hands,
crumbling like sugar
and melting like ice.
An avalanche struck Capitol Hill,
snow pouring,
collapsing the roof,
freezing the people,
splitting us into two.
No plow can stop it.
I laid myself down in the grass,
where I watched the clouds.
I breathed in,
searching for the taste of the blue air,
but I inhaled smoke.
I looked up and saw our playground engulfed in flames.
The Brook
The brook behind our Grandma’s house
swished between charcoal rocks
that carried minnows who
imprinted their scales on rocks.
They’d tell us about
the pools they’d dam up,
letting the fish stay
with just moonlight.
Grandma’s house sat
on an eighth of an acre,
too small
for a swingset or pool.
So they skipped rocks
and traded their
flesh for shovels,
to make a grand fountain of the brook.
The hidden current
drifted us.
We only felt it
after an hour.
But it never
strangled their legs
or buried their feet
between stones.
They reached for great oaks
at the threshold of the bank,
and climbed the trunks
to see the clouds before them.
They’d invite friends on bikes
and ramp up the milk crates,
like a motor circus,
flying straight over the brook.
The brook directed its curves to friends’ houses,
knowing only lefts and rights.
But if the current streamed too quickly,
they’d be lost amongst the oaks.
The old days
went floating away
with dead leaves
and gray bugs.
They’d watch the neighbors
on red lattice chairs,
complaining about loud children
in loud voices that wrinkled the water.
We try to layer the rocks right
and trek to now-vacant houses,
beneath the rusted bridge to the new car garage,
but we fell at the foot of the brook every time.
Pin Oak
I
Interstices draw
a green mural of skin.
Carved,
water slips off with the breeze.
II
Green surrounded by green,
a lattice
made of spring,
fuller than any other.
III
They scatter,
dismembered
where
dry wind is their train.
IV
The tree holds sky and earth,
drinks deep as
leaves bask in the sun.
Without a cloud.
V
Wind carries people away,
before they can admire the art
that puts breath in their lungs
and water in their stomachs.
VI
When the wind stops,
and they cannot leave,
it feels like cool water
after a drought.
VII
The wind lifts
the leaf to the bluest moon.
They forgive
her stillness.
VIII
Wind pulls the strands
of a shirt of hair.
It flutters
with its own wings.
IX
Breezes bring leaves to
still waters.
Winter comes so soon.
They will be frozen on the surface.
X
The leaf arrived at a place of cool air and little sun,
where museums were
planted on every corner.
It’s all they had to look at.
XI
The days spent baking in the sun
give way to stacked canvases,
sketches and studies done in
paints and pencils.
XII
It paints a mural between
infrared and ultraviolet.
Green light
ripples through the jet stream.
Rose Water
Leo-
Your love forges deep into me,
like the scarlet roses that
sink to the bottom of the pool,
heavy as skipping rocks.
We stand before it,
watching our reflections
dance between the petals,
drawn in the water as if we are one.
But, soon I remember
the rose in the water
is just a thought,
bursting to rain in my mind.
I lay alone,
under a setting sun,
watching the rain water
spew to the ground over the horizon.
The cold air stings my arms,
firing synapses
2,000 miles away,
trying to embrace your warm glow.
There isn’t a blanket knit
as dense as the kind they make in Minnesota,
and I am reminded of that
every time the sun fades.
Dreams of us never wear,
instead they crystallize
into a gem I hold in my hand,
a spurious memory of us.
My memory of you
is drawn with dull pastels into a mirror,
that I must protect
or else the rain will wash you away.
I think of the long and cold journey
I will make on my own,
but air refills my lungs
when I remember our destination.
I want us to be together now,
lasting eternally,
forever joined with
the warmth of the beating sun.
I see the clouds
beginning to roll over the sun,
and I know it is time
to bring your portrait inside.
Distant
Our veins were fused together
and they were snipped
in an instant.
My blood gushes out,
staining my skin
with salty recollection
and grieving metallic.
We are now submerged
in a pool of our own
tears and blood stains
that fills my lungs.
Breath escapes and
mixes with trails of
our undying cusp.
Swim to the railing with me.
Your prints are etched
into the stairs
that gave you wings to fly.
You fly far into Andromeda
without a map
to lead you back to the Milky Way.
Language
Let me tell you I feel
sad, or happy, or angry,
concisely,
in a way you understand.
You don’t deserve
to be confused,
left rereading my words,
staring back blankly at me.
I can say a lot more when I tell you
“I am choosing to leave
for college in a warm place,
away from the cold weather,”
instead of “Unaware of Polaris- Corsica
left her Length to the Stars
-no Storm to pull her
back to Snowfall.”
‘Who the hell is Corsica,
what is a Polaris,
and since when does she have arms??’
asks 95% of the entire population.
I write to inspire
and hopefully,
improve human quality life
as a whole.
But, it feels like this “good writing”
is exclusive-
for the select few
who actually
know about Greek mythology,
are Swiss botanists,
who study extinct flower species,
and understand oddly specific astrology.
It’s not inviting,
and won’t change humanity unless people
understand my point,
without an encyclopedia in hand.
Everything I write that’s deemed “bad”
is widely understood,
easily interpreted and
not cramped with questionable metaphors.
This standard is
so knowingly pretentious,
so fake,
only made for the highest few.
Let me explain to you
my feelings
simply,
so we can actually get something done.
Creative Nonfiction
Strands of Transformation
Mason was my first case of unrequited love. He liked the girls that were small, lean, and could write their names in cursive. Those were three things that I was not. Worse, he liked girls who mindlessly repeated what the teacher said, who hid sedately in the corner of the playground during recess, and who ate apple slices demurely without ever gaining an ounce. And, even though I knew that he would avoid me, I couldn’t help but chase him from the classroom through the monkey bars and straight into the wilder corners of my imagination. After nearly a decade of keeping up the chase, I’ve come to realize that I’ve always been the huntress, pursuing prey throughout my range to fill a deep hunger that never remained sated.
While Mason awakened yearning with his unforgiving specificity, he was not first to provoke desire in me. I have always wanted to be the best version of myself: the one that could shout out her own answers, the one that could climb the fire pole on the playground, or the one that could eat real food and have it glow from the interstices of my skin. I knew I could do all of these things, but I was told time and time again that I didn't have the wings to accomplish them. I was destined to be a beautiful Alexandra’s birdwing butterfly in a cluster of spiders, but that’s perilous when the spiders weave their orbs in every direction.
The year before Mason, I was dropped in a spot at the back of my second grade classroom by the dusty books that had letters that intimidated my searching fingers. Lauren was reading books that had tiny letters, which meant she was better than I was. I wanted to sit with her at the blue table of all the smartest and most fluent readers in the class. I was refused a spot at the table, and I had to glare over at all their cheery faces laughing every day. Despite the egalitarian words that were spoken, the message I received was that I was inferior to other students. The other children were flying, and I knew I could too, but couldn’t get over that I didn't have any wings, yet.
Although I was shadowed to the back of the classroom, I clawed my way up by the time I had reached fifth grade. I could proudly say I was the smartest person in my class. I knew that, and so did every other person. I wore a gold studded crown on my head that matched my devious, unfiltered mouth. I would proudly shout the big words in my writing class and spit long division facts in math class. I’d flail my arm in the air to answer the questions and then stop my teacher when she erred grammatically. I got cold stares and jealous remarks from the other students that were just as agitated as my teacher herself. Every comment and glare ripped down my throat and infected my guts. My stomach hurt more often than not. The antics, or so she called them, enraged my teacher, and she informed my parents that I would need to be quieter, gentler, and meeker. “She needs to stay muted and stop being so flamboyant. She’s making the other students feel bad.” I wanted to get up on her stool and cry out in front of the group of ten year olds. She set me up to be her outcast, like a xenophobe before a foreigner, in a classroom meant to nurture butterflies.
I found myself learning a new version of that same song when I was fourteen. My grades were far from perfect and I had to work my nose to the grindstone, far more than eighth grade. I was dissatisfied with being just eighth in the class and just a 4.3 GPA. Maybe if I worked a little harder, I could have been ranked first. Yet I found myself surrounded by both peers and adults who were either indifferent or judgmental towards me as I sought to grow, to improve.
The same was true for golf. I was constantly trying to perfect every aspect of my game, and having any score above par was a flaw in my character. Mistakes were the result of my laziness. If I put in more hours at the range, I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself at states.
Those thoughts echoed during basketball season, as I only started three times and scored seven points. If I would've stayed after hours once basketball practice was over, I could have started every game. I joined the team to try the game. I figured, since I was an ape with arms like beanstalks, I’d be decent. My golf coach, who is also the junior high basketball coach, encouraged me to sign up and went out of his way to help me at the beginning of the basketball season. He knew that I was ignorant about how to run down the sidelines and dribble with my head up, but he persisted. He had me drill and even skipped one of his own games to come and watch me play at mine. That game, I didn’t even score. I sweat profusely and I engraved the plays, in order, into the back of my skull. I wish I would’ve at least scored when the man who generously helped me came to watch me play. He was proud of me regardless, but I couldn’t realize that.
Tenacity ruptures my veins when textbooks or golf clubs are placed in my hands, but not with a basketball. I was never articulate with the way my hands could shoot, dribble and know which side to guard. Basketball was not a sport where I excelled, so, uncharacteristically, I left it. I was accustomed to dominating in everything that I tried. I couldn’t be the one that sat on the benches during games. I wanted to be the one who scored all the points and everyone cheered. I was never taught to be neglected, nor did I ever like it, so I had to pursue all the recognition I could get.
I have come to realize my determination to be either ranked or seeded first began at a very young age. However, while I constantly internalized academics, I was forced to realize that everything about athletics comes down to the external version of myself, something that is foreign. To prove my worth athletically, which, to me, meant dominating my opponents, I had to be lean and light enough to run down my prey, whether on the basketball court or the soccer field. This obsession with weight was established long before, and in an unexpected context.
In November when I was eight, my school hosted the play of The Wizard of Oz. They cast all the third graders to be either munchkins or ballerinas. I told my Grammy all about it, and she sewed me a beautiful munchkin dress I was so eager to wear. However, I soon learned that I wasn’t going to be either a ballerina or a munchkin, but I would be masked as a flying monkey that blended into the shadowy, black background. Being labeled as “big,” which I saw as synonymous with “fat,” and casting me as a flying monkey and not a ballerina was crippling to my self image.
I channeled my energy and frustration into soccer until the age of eleven. After seven years of it, I thought I’d be a little healthier. I was not. “Stop beating on yourself, Kayla. It’s only going to make it all worse.” They’d say. “But you should lose a few, you know.” I was incomparably larger and more destructive on the soccer field than any of the other players. None of the other teams wanted to play against me because they all heard about the girl that vomited after a direct shot to the stomach by me from fifty yards out. They even refused to shake my hand at the end of games. I craved the attention of being the best player, which made me forget my size for some time. Unfortunately, my time in soccer was fleeting. I quit soccer at the peak of my days in elementary school, when I realized that I would now have to play with the same girls who knew not an ounce of basic sportsmanship.
I would then need to wait until the outset of my freshman year to distinguish myself athletically, when I joined the golf team purely because I enjoyed the sport. My teammates, all older boys, acted as though they were indifferent toward me, which I just accepted, but mostly because I shot lower scores. My dad, the man who carried my bag, was captivated by my season. But he told me that next year, I was going to work harder than ever and be victorious.
In contrast, I’d have to play freshman basketball with the same girls that crossed their fingers that I wouldn't be chosen to play on their team at recess in fifth grade. We’d play every day, and every time, I’d always get picked last, and my teammates would neglect me throughout the game. They didn’t want a fat, slow girl to be on their team. I wanted to scream all the crazy, awful things that spiraled in my mind, but that would upset those thin, athletic, frail children. It might cause a scene, and those popular students would have a hard time accepting a girl calling them out for their flexible morals. Deja vu struck me, and it was fifth grade throughout basketball season. I won't be playing again. I wish I could play a sport that lets me enjoy the camaraderie of being a part of a team, but I know now, I will be exiled time and time again.
I wished that my unrequited loves would turn back, but it was never meant to be. I was never supposed to grow wings with Mason, or any of the other children. They expected me to watch from the ground, while they all flew above the trees. There was never an ounce of acceptance in his demagogic, high pitched, eight-year-old tone.
Hunger was my second largest battle, and diets were my sword. I’d drool over my friends at the lunch table, who ate without worries or thought. They didn’t understand how I tried to feed one hunger through another. I fasted to become the vibrant image that danced through the rims of my kaleidoscope. Despite my best efforts, I quit my first diet in fourth grade. My cravings consumed all the mental strength I had left. How could anyone expect a nine year old to react with endless forbearance when sweet, unhealthy treats were placed at the tip of her tongue? I confessed to my dad, shaking from the nervousness of the ambiguity of it all. He was obviously disappointed for me, but he would lie to save me from tears.
When I was twelve, I always wondered why my body wasn't as slim, short, and perfect as my best friend’s, Charlotte’s. She and I were so often compared that it became normal for me to compare our bodies, too. Peripherally, all the other girls were getting boyfriends from the middle school downtown and were preyed on by some of the high school boys. Charlotte set the beauty standard. I concluded that there was significantly more that I was in control of and could change than I was exercising control over. I asked myself why I shouldn’t simply take control. Never mind that I was already five feet, nine inches tall. Never mind the musculature already present on my frame. I could be 94 pounds like my best friend; I wasn’t working hard enough.
So I went on a diet, a secret diet, in seventh grade. The only people I let in on the secret were my closest group of five friends. I rode along the journey with much support from those friends, through the whole ill-considered ride. They’d tell me “No carbs or sugar. Just have some more blueberries. You’ll be fine.” They made me believe that sugars were my largest battle, and that an active twelve-year-old could live on 800 calories a day. I’d reinforce my diet with countless crunches, lunges, and squats until my body was shaky from the last drop of energy swirling through my cells. I was thirsty for a break.
I was always placed in the back of the desk rows so the thinner, shorter children could see over the atlas moth I resembled. I was drowned in the crowd by the sixth graders– the ultimate insult. I had never caught the attention of boys, since they were intimidated by me. Would their behavior have changed if they knew that I denied myself so much for them? Would I have stayed my hand from reaching for the raspberry cheesecake if I knew how little they would care? Charlotte got so many more flashes and waves from all the franchised males who lurked in the trees. The only attention I got was when we did the mile and the whole class was sitting there, waiting for my faltering body to finish the lap.
The summer of my thirteenth birthday, a boy tricked me into believing the spiders in my stomach were actually butterflies. He gave me the sun that I desired and, in return, he got the validation he solely wanted over and over again. I let him see the colors underneath my wings because I trusted him. He deceived me into believing that this was the perfect place for his huntress.
I was expecting the boy from the summer to be my spaniel and my grades to be perfect at the start of high school. I was beautiful: I lost so much weight, changed my style, and changed everything about myself. I was in the wrong. The boy ghosted me and ignored me like I was his used, shed cocoon that lay famished in the dirt. Not long after, he got a girlfriend, a girl who was the epitome of my larva. I was devastated after realizing he never really wanted me to share this home with him.
I finally felt excellent my freshman year. I won a national award for my poetry. I spilled all these emotions and hardships at the time onto the page. I transformed these feelings into lively, bright characters that danced around, seemingly in my imagination. Every achievement I earned, it was another gold star for me, but every achievement that I didn't receive felt like a lost opportunity.
Still, I felt like I had made absolutely no progress, since I hadn’t received validation from anyone externally, or even from myself. That’s what I wanted most. I never liked disappointment. In my mind, every mistake I made was something wrong with me.
My parents recognized my successes,and I assumed they expected me to live up to expectations that were somehow set, not by me or them, but naturally occurring. I had never gotten in trouble, and the day I was caught for having gum in my mouth terrified me, because I didn't want my parents to discover my perfect seven-year-old reputation had been tarnished. It took years to realize that my parents accepted me, flaws and all. Truly believing that they were proud of my accomplishments was an ancillary benefit.
I wrote a lot. My parents knew nothing about how much I wrote and journaled and I still don't wish to uncover those anxiety-filled stories that will remain intertwined with my childhood. The boy from the summer was my long standing entity that could never own those journal pages like Mason did. He was always consuming the shelves of my mind and taking up more space than he should have. He would have looked better on paper. Yet the only thing I kept from my experience of him was my national award. By the time I had won it, he had already departed out of the thick air, a raven escaping into night. He knew nothing about the iota of credit he deserved.
I have finally uprooted the secret that has been shaking my trunk: I am an exile. My home, such as it has been, is not and has not been a place that I can remain. I have been accused of being an outcast time and time again, and I have been deaf to those accusations, until now. I cannot be the blackened door mat. I was put here by chance and forced to live surrounded by spiders.
I’ve come to feel like a lion trapped in a petting zoo. My greatest achievements have yet to come, but for now I am barricaded by spider webs that have tied me to this void. When I find the place where destiny will put me, I will know it and so will everyone else. I could merely lay on my side as children pet me and I’m fed raw steaks from a safe distance, but acceptance of this fate is no more in my nature than it is in the nature of a butterfly to remain in her cocoon. If the caterpillar has no room to grow, how could other caterpillars that rest below the ground sing out to her once she emerges from her cocoon? Once my wet wings sense the direction of their pull, the only thing I’ll be able to do is soar over this ephemeral ‘home’. That lion inside will rupture her cage, for I cannot be trapped for long. I have seen the best and worst of all the devious spiders that think their minuscule arms could even dare to put the lion down. Instead, they’ll see a butterfly weave her way through their best webs while they are caught in their own machinations. They'll see a lion roar back at the rising sun.
Recursion
Therefore, I sit upon Grammy’s and Dad’s and Auntie’s shoulders that grew up so high, so I can see over the tallest trees. The lofty legacies that each upholds remains a standard that is maintained by the people that they've affected today. Because of their accomplishments, I am able to prosper as well. And so I have flourished, burgeoning with the leftover lessons that browned the rings carved into my trunk. Those who have been driven gave me a childhood better than the ones they were dealt. This means, one dimensionally, that I would have no reason to overcome the obstacles that they did, knowing neither the challenge nor the reward. Even more, I would not feel within my bark the hardening of those winters.
Grammy is the hardworking, never-settling-for-less, strong woman who single-handedly raised five empowered children. Auntie climbed the towers of academic, athletic, and workforce perfectionism, making those obstructions look like sand castles. The life that she strove for was compounded with her accolades, showing her remarkable balance as she climbed each stairwell. My mom and dad were both raised in lower income homes, but never failed to keep up the chase. Unlike Auntie, my parents were ones that were able to nourish my developing childhood.
I have learned through them that the way to be successful is through perseverance and skill. My parents’ selflessness has given me the opportunity to grow the longest branches and the greenest leaves. I ingested these nutrients, turning myself into the type A offspring that the family desired: the tallest, smartest, easiest child who never questioned their wrongs or the static in their perspectives.
*
Perfectionism, the unattainable state of being without flaw, isn’t a constructive raison d'être for our eccentric ethics. Striving for perfection remains logically, stubbornly impossible. Why are we sustaining our green summer leaves in the winter? According to the natural world herself, green leaves are the ones that display healthiness and exorbitance, but the red and orange ones are signs of enervation. In contrast, I have been raised to be evergreen. In these bleak, dying days, we should be using the insufficient energy supply to find nutrients, not on our superficial exterior. These efforts are trivial.
Grammy practiced throughout her childhood and strained muscles to be a grand water ballet queen, Auntie found herself studying for days upon end with sleepless nights on either side of it, and my dad spent his teenage years training through torn muscles to throw a discus into the air as if it were a rocket ship, diving head-first into a sea of stars. The sacrifice of pain is the linear tie between us. We have all lacerated our roots and ripped them apart, leaving us with pieces to fit back together. We tear off our branches, just to sustain ornate green leaves. However, without these physical sacrifices, we would not be able to stand as straight as we do, and I wouldn’t have become the tall, aspirational person that I am. Their successes have been extraordinary, but I have to wonder at the cost they have paid. Even for myself, I wonder what my payment will be.
Perfectionism has wrapped its roots tight around their throats, but what if I don’t want to suffocate? Yet, it seems a necessity that they always have their arms outreached and their roots in a knot. Without constant doing, without always trying to better, to perfect, there is failure. Vitally, we need external appreciation to remind ourselves that other people see these efforts. We want them to see the shiny medals, the letters after our names, and the acceptance epistles. We want it written in words. We feel as if we must sustain a weakening chase so that at the end of the day, we can lay down and feel the constant rhythm of our heart finally slow. Yet I want more than transient moments of satisfaction. I want to enjoy the things I love for a lifetime, and I want to feel satisfied with my dreams all the time, not just at short, ‘profound’ moments.
*
There is this little infection in my family that spirals through generations, without any obvious symptoms or remedies for the carrier. There is a shred of beauty in the fact that everything we do is undoubtedly supreme. If we perform perfectly, we will prevail. Thus, ascendency will follow, and perfection is achieved. This little infection guarantees nothing subpar. This is not to pursue glory, but simply ensure survival.
I trace the story back to my Grammy, at the trunk of the tree, having five children, two of which contributed most to passing this gene. Her obvious hard work set a standard for her children, who would come to achieve things just as great. Grammy swam competitive water ballet and pursued 4-H awards for her baking and sewing, winning more often than losing and marking her success. Not only was Grammy quite competitive in her younger years, but she also demonstrated her attention to detail and perfectionism to her children later in life as a single mother.
After three sons, Grammy had Elizabeth, my Auntie. She has motivated lots of people through her empowering work for society, writing, and teaching. She was at the top of her class, earned twelve varsity letters, and served her community constantly, and she took those fantastic learned skills to college with her to grow into the benevolent person she is today. Living in a home surrounded by four brothers and a single mother, hard work was Auntie’s only gateway to success. Her elusive success was characterized by strong academic standings, scholarships, and trophies from soccer championships. Auntie is now a full professor at Colgate with a best-selling book. But, even more, she is always helping in the community, like assisting low-income girls get into college, and rescuing dogs.
My dad, the youngest of the five children, followed the footsteps of his brother, but also went on to educate himself and pursue bigger things. The first glimpse of his patience and endurance was evident when he was twelve and learning how to race remote control cars. He had no role model to tell him how to program a remote or solter an electric engine in, but his talent and discipline prevailed. He spent the next thirty years of his life strengthening that skill, until he was unbeatable. At the onset of his high school years, he picked up from his brother how good he could be at throwing. He admired his brother, so he put in more hours than daylight allowed, until he was victorious. He beat his brother’s school record for discus and then went on to win states two years in a row. Then, a year into college, he broke the national record.
Because they were the most recent branches on our tree, Auntie and my Dad had to do everything in their power to stand out. And yet, they were arguably the ones with the most successes. Neither wanted to be overshadowed by their three older brothers, so they pursued greatness. These ideas were planted into the thick soil that held the tree’s roots in place and traveled up through the trunk and into my branch, letting me devour their spent nutrients. Although it is more difficult to grow in slightly soured soil, trees need some of it. I’d wilt and my trunk would simply give out without any of those nutrients. The oxygen that I breathe in alleviates my ailments, or at least I thought they did. I soon realized I was breathing toxins, and I needed to exhale.
*
So, I guess we’re all a bit neurotic. The pressure we put on ourselves to be the best at everything is a compulsive habit that we have learned and that our genes activate. But, denial is the primary response whenever one is interrogated, like the quest itself for perfection is a crime.
There’s something about the mental tolls that perfectionism takes on us that needs to be hidden, as if the anxiety and mental strain doesn’t exist. This neglect and denial of emotions has created an entangled confusion within our own selves. Grammy shadowed her feelings of angst, Auntie used to hide her exhaustion with perfect grades, and my Dad showed me to push my emotions deep down to disguise my ‘weaknesses.’ Because of this, I have internalized the message that showing a loss in stamina does not meet expectations.
After hiding behind the two way glass and deflecting the emotions that come with it, we release these effects, after we see the interrogator vanish. I observed this phenomenon most clearly on a day when we picked apples as a family. We picked up apples where they fell, never differentiating between good and bad. When we came inside, we took off our coats and cooked applesauce down with parched stems and all. We let it boil in the pot until midnight, forgetting about the dust that sprinkled down from the range hood, into the pot. Before bed, we shut it off, and let it sit, to bring with us the next day. Thus, we brought our slightly-toxined applesauce and carried these effects with us each day.
However, for some undetermined reason, I’ve felt the effects of this hiding, without rational causes, fabricating my own problems out of dust, like some talentless toddler, yearning for an embrace. How did mountains grow on my shoulders without any premeditated erosion? I have shown the world that I can golf exceptionally, but with that comes heavy mental strains. And the message that I have received is that, since I am successful, I shouldn’t have these problems. There is no dependent product without some sort of catalyst, but, in the end, pressure seems like just an idea when I keep getting the results that I want. There is no need for excuses, when there is nothing to excuse. Thus, the cycle is renewed.
*
There always seems to be a competition at family functions, wherein a task is presented. Who can do it best, and who can be the most selfless? Usually, it’s my father, who lives closest to his hometown, and who cares for his aging mother’s physical needs. And once this competition is complete, then it is time for shame and guilt. After the winner has completed the whole ritual of tedious self-flagellation, then the rest are allowed to feel sorry for all the effort they wish they contributed, too. The travesty’s illogic rushes through.
I have been able to witness the effects this routine has on the ‘winner.’ My dad is always becoming a better version of himself through his hobbies. He once said, “It is not a hobby or fun if there is no talent or skill attached to it.” Chronologically, he was a self-taught remote control race-car driver, whose skill led to sponsorships and a reputation as the fastest, cleanest driver at each event he entered. He was able to drive a golf ball over 300 yards and score the lowest as a scratch golfer. Then, in high school he excelled at throwing, again learning his own approach, winning states his junior and senior years. He then coached the other kids on his team, because he was, in fact, superior to them as a result of his skill level and knowledge. Then, in college, he broke the national record for discus. He was the best in the country. My dad became a maintenance mechanic for the county, and he quickly superseded the skill of anyone that ever worked there, so the county put him in charge of the inner workings of all the machines. He is absolutely unstoppable.
Grammy further exemplifies this pattern. She, as a single mother, demanded that her children perform to her expectations. Her children recount her as being someone who had to have everything “just so,” or she would turn into an angry storm. Her flowers would have to be in the neatest rows, and her pickles would have to receive the most compliments and praises for her talents.
Most people want to be better versions of themselves. Most people would go out of their way to do things for their mental and physical health, would meet with family and friends more, or seek financial comfort. Most people simply want to be better. They desire improvement. However, desire isn’t pertinent for us. For us, it’s compulsion. We must better ourselves to sustain life. Without this, we have nothing.
*
I have been following in the family’s footsteps. I am the selfless, hardworking, driven human that is their genetic outcome. I am in the top three percent of my class, with the hardest schedule that I could create. There is no room for breathing, or sleeping, but, more importantly, no room for mistakes. I write during school and write in the evening and write at 4AM in pursuit of Scholastics medals and national recognition. I pursue college scholarships to avoid putting my parents into debt. They don’t deserve that, since they already invested all of their earnings in me. I will go to college, with a fresh start, because of the hours I put in, not theirs. In manifesting my aspirations, I will repay them one day for everything they have done.
Another avenue that I have pursued has been golf. I am ranked second in my region for women’s golf, and that still doesn't feel like enough. I don’t even want to go to college for golf, but there is a mountain in the way that I must climb. My ambition and work ethic has led me to be my school’s best golfer, regardless of sex, yet my discipline is often overlooked in my own school.
Golf has been my own personal upside-down, spiraling roller coaster this past three years, and it was through golf that I finally discovered the limits to external motivation. As a freshman I was determined, optimistic, and had no dark clouds in sight for miles. But, way out in the distance lay the lake, and I saw the etching of a state champion in green water. I worked, believing that that was the direct path to success. The end results matched the expectations honed in effort. Golf was my simple escape from the world; it was a chance to divide school from life, and me from my own feelings. Then, in my sophomore year, I underwent an identity crisis. Others’ priorities interlaced themselves between school, writing, and life. It felt like everything came and went faster than I could type, but there was a large part of me who wanted to unbraid these priorities and look at them like three of their own separate pieces. I empathetically came and left the state championship on a day that I didn't have the mental strength to endure. And now, after much time and help, I am able to recognize this mindset as unhealthy. I have found the time to take these strands, lay them out evenly and put them all back together, just how I want to, like Aristotle and Eudaimonia. He braided virtue, control, and responsibility all together to seed this growing idea of Eudaimonia. Critically, he makes all aspects internal.
*
I am the obvious outcome of this genetic mess. I am striving to be the better, more perfect version of myself every day. Of course this is not bad, but the questions of extent and motivation determine whether this path is healthy. It is necessary for me to break this cycle, to dig myself out of this fibrous rooted entanglement. There is nothing but heredity holding me to this standard. I want to travel, make peace with long-term effects, and make an effort to be independently strong. I want to be self-reliant, but not see myself as the cause of all wrongs.
My dad has already lived up to this standard and he has put a quantitative part of his life toward perfection in many respects. He has learned that that’s what makes him happy. However, it is normal to follow one’s predecessors. There is a sort of generational spiral that he fell into, before leading me to the same precipice. There will always be a part of me that feels the pull of this vortex, but I will find my way to climb out of this abyss soon.
Thankfully, Auntie is on the journey of liberation. She has repeatedly exhausted herself, and now she is focused on the long term. She has more time for herself, her daughter, and her own life. Auntie is a direct result of both hard work and its excess. Her hard work has gotten her a professorship. In contrast, her perfectionism has given her lifelong fatigue.
Grammy is now done working and competing. She has happily retired and is doing well with her sewing, cooking, and gardening. She has the time to go at her own pace and not live up to any expectation that may arise regarding her leisures. She has finally put down her days of exhaustion and tiresome nights. She managed to raise five successful children all on her own. Grammy has proven powerful in every way that a woman is.
*
I’ve spent enough time thinking about just my problems. My concerns have turned from myself to Auntie’s daughter. The cycle is spiraling outward and could become something of a burden to her if she does not heed this advice. She has been planted in the same soil to make this perfectionist tree blossom within her. Her mother has a PhD and her father is a lawyer. She is acculturated to become a hardworking, never-settling-for-less girl with wide eyes and long arms, reaching for the stars, even in a black sky.
These genetic traits will continue in her without intervention. After climbing up my own mountain with all of its difficulties, I finally saw the green lake fringed with a copse of apple trees from the summit. Less poetically, I’ve discovered that my imperfections are beautiful, and so will she.
I wish that I could split this little gene in half. I feel the importance of and need for a little bit of perfectionism in life, to remind me that I must maintain a standard. My cousin’s choices all lie before her. I believe she will be a part of breaking this toxic cycle.
From a smaller lens, this will forever affect my life. Others will always expect me to perform beyond natural limits, but that doesn’t mean I must oblige, and I hope that I will stop that for my cousin. She will look to me as her example, and I need to be able to show her my flaws. I must be strong enough to recognize gene regulation, because, without that choice, life will be black or white.
Into the Light
The screened windows were open so the echo of the rain hitting the concrete pad outside would trickle in. The soft openings that have worn through the screen allow the little life to gather at the warmth of the indoors. The kitchen always had the warmest aura, where the apples were pressed in fall and the children would gather at the 6:00 siren. The routine rumble of the children would chatter the flat ceiling panels where the little ladybugs stayed.
“Here’s our new home. It’s a little different from Long Island, but we will make the best out of it,” he said.
The home sat on the precipice of a not so busy four-way intersection in a little town. Red and blue birds would hum above gardens of flowers that bloom beneath the white railing balcony. Two mahogany rocker chairs sat on the left and right of the grand, white door to the warm home.
The highest part of the home was the biggest bedroom with a vaulted ceiling adorned with white edging. The lights were designated for the lamps and windows to let in.
Soon, a child was brought home and the ladybugs floundered in the light of it all. They surged to the light panels in the kitchen and den. The baby was laid in a cradle beneath the light, as he reached his arms up, like he was touching the light. Once he learned to talk, or at least almost talk, he made the “Laa Laa Laa” sound, trying to mimic the world light, his father had thought. He would be amused for hours on end, staring up at the light. It was something so simple, but so entertaining.
Then, as time went on, four more children were placed in the cradle in the den, staring up at the ceiling, making the same odd sounds, pointing at it. So, their mother decided to install more panel lights throughout the house. And, of course, as the children grew older, they never pointed at the ceiling and spewed mouthfuls of gibberish at it.
The other man and one of the boys had left three years after the last baby was born. It was very quick, but that’s just how it went. Nothing else really changed except that.
Soon, all of the children had left and it was just the mother on her own. She consumed her own time, but she didn’t leave very often. Many, many years later, more children came, not together, but separately, and they were older too. They weren’t babies when they first arrived. It was a girl that had stayed with the mother for long days. However, this connection seemed to be different than the one between the mother and the children that came before. It was closer, but in a different aspect of closeness. They baked, drew pictures, went outside the door of the kitchen, sat on the rocker chairs out the door of the den, and things like that. The girl rarely ever stayed over, instead she would leave and come back the next day.
As the girl got older, she learned to clean, as she noticed the mother’s withering physical state. The girl helped her in every way that she could, since the mother wouldn’t be able to do it herself. But, perhaps one day, the girl made a realization.
She asked, “Grammy, what are those things in the lights? The red things with wings?”
The mother patted her shoulder and brought her in close, as she put the vacuum cleaner down. She sat beside her at the kitchen table.
“Those are the ladybugs,” she said with nothing but delight.
“Why don’t you vacuum them up. So your lights are cleaner.”
“No, no, no,” the mother said, pushing the vacuum further away, “They have to stay there. They always have. Sweetheart,” she began with her thick Long Island accent, “they are here to watch over us.”
Fiction
Warding Spells
The October air was dark and cold. I felt it twist my hair when I opened the front door. I fastened you into your car seat, not too tight, just how you like it. I put your dinosaur water bottle into your cup holder. You said you wanted to bring your water with you like I do.
It was the weekend before Halloween and your mother promised that she and I would take you to the drive-thru spooky forest at your favorite campground. The sun had already set and now it was the moon’s turn. I was sitting in the seat next to yours, watching your face light up like a jack-o-lantern. I cracked the window, allowing the October air to creep in.
While your mother was driving, she told you about the zoo animals and cars you might see. You cheered and repeated those things to me, as if to excite my imagination too, and I smiled and clapped in response. For you, Halloween is all about dressing up as purple butterflies and princesses and painting your tongue blue with candy. You don’t know what Halloween is like after that age; you have no idea what zombies, killers, or spirits were, and you have no interest in finding out, either.
We knew that night at the campground was about celebrating all of the scariest, bloodiest costumes and the most soul-wrenching decorations strung around the forest. There were no ponies or puppies or race cars, but the web of your colorful expectations meant that’s exactly what you saw.
We drove past the entrance gate and went up, behind the line of taillights waiting for their wildest horror fantasies to be fulfilled. We sat in park, waiting, and your mother turned around to face you, as you sat innocently in your seat.
“Honey, just remember that everything they set up for you to see isn’t real. It’s just pretend, like some of your silly books. It’s not scary; it’s just for fun.” She paused. “Sweetie, you are so brave,” she said, patting you on the shoulder. I sat back, confined to my corner of the car and just listened, watching you nod your head in agreement.
You turned to me and said, “KK, it’s all just pretend. It’s not scary.”
“That’s right,” I said, passively, in order to keep you calm. I saw your mother smiling at us in my peripheral view.
You reached your hand out to me, and tapped my wrist to get my attention. “KK, hold my hand while we go through the spooky forest.” Your mother looked up into the rear view mirror and did the ‘awe’ face, without saying awe. She was happy.
I held your small hand with my fingers, delicately, as we entered. Lights and signs were placed throughout the entrance. Each of the RVs had gory decorations outside and campers with matching outfits. At this moment, I grew nervous. We turned the corner and saw those campers in great detail, in the light of their campfires. But, I looked over to you, and saw your wide eyes and opened mouth, giggling.
You weren’t phased as tall, bloody zombies walked toward the car. You laughed. A clown jumped out from behind a tall oak and pounced on the car, and you just waved at him and said, “Hi,” in your soft, pure voice. Your mother and I made eye contact in the rearview mirror, with our jaws agape.
My hand began to sweat after seeing some of the costumes and campers. I questioned if the fake blood was really fake. But I stayed quiet, making sure not to gasp or screech, trying to keep you at ease.
“More spooky, more spooky,” you chanted, as the campground came to an end. The three of us sat, watching the hidden zombie scare the people in the next car, like he did to us, on the other side that we toured, while waiting for the cars in front of us to continue out. “More spooky, more spooky,” you continued. My heart refused to slow, as I saw the color of my cheeks in the reflection of the window.
Your mother was sure that you were going to have nightmares for the next month and keep her up through the night crying about the werewolves howling outside or the ghosts that shuffled the curtains in your room. “It was all pretend, mommy,” you answered, when she asked what you thought of it on the way home. Then, you let go of my hand.
The absence of your touch stung my palm, as if one of the nerves in my hand had been severed. It felt like my mind had sent a magnetic pulse into my hand, waiting for an opposite that was never coming. I felt powerless.
“KK, did you like the spooky forest?” your mother asked me, watching for your reaction. Her voice snapped me out of this trance. I popped my head up to look at her.
“What?” I asked.
“Did you like the spooky forest?” Your mother excitedly reiterated.
“Oh, yes, I really loved it! So spooky!” I said with enthusiasm.
“KK liked the spooky forest too,” you said, unaware as you protected me the whole time.
Number Nine
“This steak’s a little overdone,” she took a bite, “it’s a good thing you’re still attractive,” she sighed.
He laughed, unable to recognize her tone, “Well, I learned how to cook at the restaurant I worked at in college, many, many years ago, you know that.”
She didn’t reply. Instead, she finished her dinner, left her dishes in the sink, and let the aura of the night take over.
It was the summer in Italy, and Cara’s favorite thing to do was to sit out on their balcony overlooking the coast. It was beautiful, especially at sunset– the people would slowly wander off the beaches, the noise would turn into a soft lull of the waves, and all that was left was her occasional breaths, crinkles of book pages turning, or the pop of the cork coming out of her wine bottle.
Tonight was different. She wasn’t reading a book or nonchalantly sipping wine. She dug a handwritten note out of her back pocket. It was addressed to Charlie, from a woman named Sylvia. She was confessing her love for him and telling him how badly she missed the sex they had those few times.
Charlie slid the glass door open. She crumbled the note and shoved it back in her pocket. She turned around, startled and now slightly drunk, said, “Charlie, what are you doing out here?”
“Just coming to see how you are,” he rested his arm on the railing.
“I’m fine, just waiting for you to seduce me,” she inhaled and rolled her eyes back.
He laughed.
They sat in the deck chairs, breathing in the night’s air. She didn’t want to talk to Charlie, making lies and stories up– she wanted to listen to the waves and the night. She wanted to drive to South Miranda with Charlie, find Sylvia’s house by the beach, light her house on fire, and then make love to Charlie by the blaze while she watched.
But, after some silence, Cara began, “You know, we should really go back to the office soon, it’s been a long time since we were there. Especially you.”
“About two weeks,” he claimed.
“That’s a while. You need to keep it up. It’s your business too.”
“I know,” Charlie groaned, “But, I just love staying home, taking the days slow, and spending it with you, my love,” he sighed.
“I’ve been at work for most of this time,” she responded sternly.
He groaned, knowing she was right and he had no excuse.
After the moon had fully taken over the sky, they went inside. Cara picked up the wine glasses from the table off the deck and put them into the sink with the other dirty, unwashed dishes.
“Do you just want to go to bed now?” Cara asked, with her hands on the edge of the counter.
“I suppose,” he sheepishly agreed and yawned.
Cara went inside to dress herself in lace, the color of the night sky, hoping to get Charlie’s attention.
Unfortunately, she ended up tucking herself into bed. She set her ring on the nightstand. They kept the window open, against Cara’s desire, letting the moonlight be their lamp.
“Good night, Cara. I love you,” Charlie said, turning onto his sleeping side.
Cara waited about twenty minutes to make sure Charlie was actually asleep. She put her slippers on and crept into the garage, and into her car. She slid the driver’s seat back all the way, revealing three vials that all looked the same. She put one into her pocket.
After getting back to her room, she slowly and quietly laid back down on the bed. She rolled her body over Charlie’s to see if he was awake. She didn’t think he was at first, since his eyes weren’t blinking, but as she went to roll back over, she saw his eyes twitch, then open the slightest bit.
“Are you awake? Cara said softly, pulling the blanket off of her.
“What are you doing?” He said, so groggily.
Cara was now sitting up in bed, and tense. Cara began to stutter because she knew she couldn’t let him find out. It would ruin everything.
“I want you right now,” she whined, trying to make up for the situation.
“I’m tired,” he mumbled, half-concisely.
“Oh,” she calmed down, “Sorry for waking you up though.”
“It’s alright.”
Cara went back to sleep, with the full vial in her opposite pocket. This was not very comfortable at all and she couldn’t check to see if he was awake again either or she would look even more suspicious.
But she slept the night with her hand in her pocket, holding the vial. Luckily, she woke up earlier than he did. She got up and made breakfast- some eggs, toast, bacon and coffee.
She had never tried putting the liquid in food, or a drink. It’s supposed to be dropped on the person’s eyelids, but she was desperate. She put five drops in his coffee and swirled it around with a butter knife. A few bubbles came to the top.
He woke up to the smell of bacon cooking. He was a typical man.
“Oh, you made me breakfast?” Charlie said, delighted.
“Yes, I did! Let’s take it out to the balcony,” she said excitedly.
Each brought their plate out to their outdoor dining set. The sun had risen, but on the other side of their building. They ate mostly in silence because they were just so hungry. But, after finishing, Cara asked, “So, Charlie, should we go into the office today?”
He slurped down his last sip of coffee and set it on the table. He instantly replied, “Yes, of course. Definitely. Let’s go now,” he said, picking up his plate to go inside. He ran inside to get dressed, almost robotically.
“Well, then,” Cara laughed to herself, “I guess this really does work.”
She watched out at the sun rising on their side. It was beautiful. She took one last sip and headed inside to get dressed. Cara laughed to herself. He was so pathetic now.
“Hi, Charlie. I see you grabbed my work bags,” she noticed.
“Yes, I did! Now, can you drive us to the office, please? There’s a lot of work to be done,” he said eagerly.
“Yes, we are leaving now,” she assured him, pulling out of the driveway. Normally, he would drive.
In the elevator up to the top floor, Charlie began,“Cara, did you see the report Mia sent us? The new stats? I wrote some things down for you to look at, while you were getting ready.”
“No, I did not,” she said, almost a bit annoyed at his attentiveness now.
Luckily, the elevator dinged soon.
In the cubicles, in the path of their office, Charlie greeted all of their employees. Once in their office, he flipped open his briefcase, looking at some reports on the page. Cara pulled some pages out of her bag, pretending to do something. Her mind was elsewhere.
Soon, after mindless note taking and page flipping, she pushed her chair out and stood up from their desk. “I need to go down to the lab. I’ve got to talk to Deana,” she insisted.
“Oh, alright. Do you need me to come down with you? Will you need help?” He asked diligently.
“No,” she heaved, “No, I do not. Please stay here,” she said.
“Okay, I’ll stay here and get more work done,” he paused, watching her at the frame of the door, “l love you, Cara,” he smiled a stupid smile.
“Love you too,” she mumbled and then walked out the door.
In the basement of the building was the lab where all of the liquids are created and synthesized. It was padlocked and double geared shut.
“Deana, are you busy?” Cara, asked tiredly, sitting down at the first stool near her.
“Um, no, not really. What’s up?” She asked.
Without beating around the bush, Cara confessed, “So, I gave Charlie five drops of the solution,” she folded her hands in her lap.
“What?! Why would you do that?” she said, exasperated.
Defensively, “He cheated on me! I had to!” she shouted back to her.
“He cheated on you?” she gasped.
“Yeah, he did!”
“With who?” She put the two vials in her hand on the table and sat down.
“Some low life bitch from South Miranda,” she scoffed.
“Are you kidding me?” she said, angrily.
“No, I’m not.”
“I thought he would’ve been the last person to cheat. He’s going against everything this company works for. What a disgrace.”
Cara sighed, “Trust me, I know.”
“We should probably go up and check on him and make sure all of the processes are happening at the speed they should be.”
“Just pretend you need to ask him a question, and then we’ll come back down here,” Cara planned.
They took the elevator up in silence. Cara slowly opened the door to see Charlie sitting with his head on desk, and a pen falling out of his hand.
“Oh, my God. He’s dead,” Deana said, running over to check his pulse and listen for his breath.
“It’s supposed to make him horny, not kill him!” Cara shouted.
“Yeah, it does! You have to follow directions. Why did you give him so much?” She said, so confused. “Didn’t you put it on his eyelids last night?”
“No, I put it in his coffee this morning.”
Both of their eyes widened, staring at Charlie’s lifeless body.
Nat. Winners
Persids
Pleaides
My green Earth darkens to black ash
in your coma.
You’ve left me without
a star to orbit.
Your chilling atmosphere numbs me.
I don’t think I’ll see the sun again.
There are no shadows without sunshine.
It’s gravity.
I no longer can bask in the sun’s warmth,
nor swing between Venus or Jupiter.
You left craters on my surface.
All the stars have a reason,
but all you are is a void in an obsidian sky.
I see melancholy clouds and mirthless azure.
on a cold moon.
Pegasus
The smell of gasoline floats around us,
While the sound of the engine slowly grows louder,
Muting any other noises nearby.
Rotting trees lay where
Deer rustle about in brush.
The halo of petrol is above our heads.
You reach your farmer’s tanned arms around me,
When your enormous, veiny hands
Overlap mine-
Interlocking your coarse fingers into my delicate ones.
The engine begins to sound
Of disturbed black birds
Crying out for sympathy.
The corona of gasoline
Dances around us.
Its hoof gently brushes against the other,
When I grasp one of the silver wings.
I lay my head back gently onto your chest,
Covered by your green Carhart sweatshirt,
As I rotate around to see
Your glimmering hazel eyes looking back into mine.
You grab the chapped rein to turn
back to the direction of home,
After the sun has begun to settle down,
Leaving the sky the color of coal.
I follow you back to your room,
Deer mounts lined on each tan wall,
Glaring at us, in jealousy,
Where you leave your brown boots out.
We lay side by side,
On your tractor sheets,
And under your favorite gray blanket,
When I fall asleep in your arms.
Polaris
I hate not knowing why you
keep me at the edge of your transit.
Maybe it's because there’s another girl,
who’s got the blue eyes of Neptune,
or maybe it’s because I’m just too gypsy.
Maybe we see different constellations,
or you can’t see our twinned stars anymore.
I wish you would explain this broken syzygy,
so I could migrate for you.
I want to travel worlds with my hand in yours,
but I can’t imagine that now,
because of your elusive orbit.
You face the opposite way,
and radiate a cold atmosphere
when we are near,
like how the moon cools the earth.
Your galaxy seems farther than it is.
Just the thought of you, living a better life,
eloped and a father,
without even a thought of me-
it's like Pangea, breaking me into pieces.
I hate how you leave me in space
without a North Star to follow,
always tempting me to wander
between the light of distant stars.
Strands of Transformations
Mason was my first case of unrequited love. He liked the girls that were small, lean, and could write their names in cursive. Those were three things that I was not. Worse, he liked girls who mindlessly repeated what the teacher said, who hid sedately in the corner of the playground during recess, and who ate apple slices demurely without ever gaining an ounce. And, even though I knew that he would avoid me, I couldn’t help but chase him from the classroom through the monkey bars and straight into the wilder corners of my imagination. After nearly a decade of keeping up the chase, I’ve come to realize that I’ve always been the huntress, pursuing prey throughout my range to fill a deep hunger that never remained sated.
While Mason awakened yearning with his unforgiving specificity, he was not first to provoke desire in me. I have always wanted to be the best version of myself: the one that could shout out her own answers, the one that could climb the fire pole on the playground, or the one that could eat real food and have it glow from the interstices of my skin. I knew I could do all of these things, but I was told time and time again that I didn't have the wings to accomplish them. I was destined to be a beautiful Alexandra’s birdwing butterfly in a cluster of spiders, but that’s perilous when the spiders weave their orbs in every direction.
The year before Mason, I was dropped in a spot at the back of my second grade classroom by the dusty books that had letters that intimidated my searching fingers. Lauren was reading books that had tiny letters, which meant she was better than I was. I wanted to sit with her at the blue table of all the smartest and most fluent readers in the class. I was refused a spot at the table, and I had to glare over at all their cheery faces laughing every day. Despite the egalitarian words that were spoken, the message I received was that I was inferior to other students. The other children were flying, and I knew I could too, but couldn’t get over that I didn't have any wings, yet.
Although I was shadowed to the back of the classroom, I clawed my way up by the time I had reached fifth grade. I could proudly say I was the smartest person in my class. I knew that, and so did every other person. I wore a gold studded crown on my head that matched my devious, unfiltered mouth. I would proudly shout the big words in my writing class and spit long division facts in math class. I’d flail my arm in the air to answer the questions and then stop my teacher when she erred grammatically. I got cold stares and jealous remarks from the other students that were just as agitated as my teacher herself. Every comment and glare ripped down my throat and infected my guts. My stomach hurt more often than not. The antics, or so she called them, enraged my teacher, and she informed my parents that I would need to be quieter, gentler, and meeker. “She needs to stay muted and stop being so flamboyant. She’s making the other students feel bad.” I wanted to get up on her stool and cry out in front of the group of ten year olds. She set me up to be her outcast, like a xenophobe before a foreigner, in a classroom meant to nurture butterflies.
I found myself learning a new version of that same song when I was fourteen. My grades were far from perfect and I had to work my nose to the grindstone, far more than eighth grade. I was dissatisfied with being just eighth in the class and just a 4.3 GPA. Maybe if I worked a little harder, I could have been ranked first. Yet I found myself surrounded by both peers and adults who were either indifferent or judgmental towards me as I sought to grow, to improve.
The same was true for golf. I was constantly trying to perfect every aspect of my game, and having any score above par was a flaw in my character. Mistakes were the result of my laziness. If I put in more hours at the range, I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself at states.
Those thoughts echoed during basketball season, as I only started three times and scored seven points. If I would've stayed after hours once basketball practice was over, I could have started every game. I joined the team to try the game. I figured, since I was an ape with arms like beanstalks, I’d be decent. My golf coach, who is also the junior high basketball coach, encouraged me to sign up and went out of his way to help me at the beginning of the basketball season. He knew that I was ignorant about how to run down the sidelines and dribble with my head up, but he persisted. He had me drill and even skipped one of his own games to come and watch me play at mine. That game, I didn’t even score. I sweat profusely and I engraved the plays, in order, into the back of my skull. I wish I would’ve at least scored when the man who generously helped me came to watch me play. He was proud of me regardless, but I couldn’t realize that.
Tenacity ruptures my veins when textbooks or golf clubs are placed in my hands, but not with a basketball. I was never articulate with the way my hands could shoot, dribble and know which side to guard. Basketball was not a sport where I excelled, so, uncharacteristically, I left it. I was accustomed to dominating in everything that I tried. I couldn’t be the one that sat on the benches during games. I wanted to be the one who scored all the points and everyone cheered. I was never taught to be neglected, nor did I ever like it, so I had to pursue all the recognition I could get.
I have come to realize my determination to be either ranked or seeded first began at a very young age. However, while I constantly internalized academics, I was forced to realize that everything about athletics comes down to the external version of myself, something that is foreign. To prove my worth athletically, which, to me, meant dominating my opponents, I had to be lean and light enough to run down my prey, whether on the basketball court or the soccer field. This obsession with weight was established long before, and in an unexpected context.
In November when I was eight, my school hosted the play of The Wizard of Oz. They cast all the third graders to be either munchkins or ballerinas. I told my Grammy all about it, and she sewed me a beautiful munchkin dress I was so eager to wear. However, I soon learned that I wasn’t going to be either a ballerina or a munchkin, but I would be masked as a flying monkey that blended into the shadowy, black background. Being labeled as “big,” which I saw as synonymous with “fat,” and casting me as a flying monkey and not a ballerina was crippling to my self image.
I channeled my energy and frustration into soccer until the age of eleven. After seven years of it, I thought I’d be a little healthier. I was not. “Stop beating on yourself, Kayla. It’s only going to make it all worse.” They’d say. “But you should lose a few, you know.” I was incomparably larger and more destructive on the soccer field than any of the other players. None of the other teams wanted to play against me because they all heard about the girl that vomited after a direct shot to the stomach by me from fifty yards out. They even refused to shake my hand at the end of games. I craved the attention of being the best player, which made me forget my size for some time. Unfortunately, my time in soccer was fleeting. I quit soccer at the peak of my days in elementary school, when I realized that I would now have to play with the same girls who knew not an ounce of basic sportsmanship.
I would then need to wait until the outset of my freshman year to distinguish myself athletically, when I joined the golf team purely because I enjoyed the sport. My teammates, all older boys, acted as though they were indifferent toward me, which I just accepted, but mostly because I shot lower scores. My dad, the man who carried my bag, was captivated by my season. But he told me that next year, I was going to work harder than ever and be victorious.
In contrast, I’d have to play freshman basketball with the same girls that crossed their fingers that I wouldn't be chosen to play on their team at recess in fifth grade. We’d play every day, and every time, I’d always get picked last, and my teammates would neglect me throughout the game. They didn’t want a fat, slow girl to be on their team. I wanted to scream all the crazy, awful things that spiraled in my mind, but that would upset those thin, athletic, frail children. It might cause a scene, and those popular students would have a hard time accepting a girl calling them out for their flexible morals. Deja vu struck me, and it was fifth grade throughout basketball season. I won't be playing again. I wish I could play a sport that lets me enjoy the camaraderie of being a part of a team, but I know now, I will be exiled time and time again.
I wished that my unrequited loves would turn back, but it was never meant to be. I was never supposed to grow wings with Mason, or any of the other children. They expected me to watch from the ground, while they all flew above the trees. There was never an ounce of acceptance in his demagogic, high pitched, eight-year-old tone.
Hunger was my second largest battle, and diets were my sword. I’d drool over my friends at the lunch table, who ate without worries or thought. They didn’t understand how I tried to feed one hunger through another. I fasted to become the vibrant image that danced through the rims of my kaleidoscope. Despite my best efforts, I quit my first diet in fourth grade. My cravings consumed all the mental strength I had left. How could anyone expect a nine year old to react with endless forbearance when sweet, unhealthy treats were placed at the tip of her tongue? I confessed to my dad, shaking from the nervousness of the ambiguity of it all. He was obviously disappointed for me, but he would lie to save me from tears.
When I was twelve, I always wondered why my body wasn't as slim, short, and perfect as my best friend’s, Charlotte’s. She and I were so often compared that it became normal for me to compare our bodies, too. Peripherally, all the other girls were getting boyfriends from the middle school downtown and were preyed on by some of the high school boys. Charlotte set the beauty standard. I concluded that there was significantly more that I was in control of and could change than I was exercising control over. I asked myself why I shouldn’t simply take control. Never mind that I was already five feet, nine inches tall. Never mind the musculature already present on my frame. I could be 94 pounds like my best friend; I wasn’t working hard enough.
So I went on a diet, a secret diet, in seventh grade. The only people I let in on the secret were my closest group of five friends. I rode along the journey with much support from those friends, through the whole ill-considered ride. They’d tell me “No carbs or sugar. Just have some more blueberries. You’ll be fine.” They made me believe that sugars were my largest battle, and that an active twelve-year-old could live on 800 calories a day. I’d reinforce my diet with countless crunches, lunges, and squats until my body was shaky from the last drop of energy swirling through my cells. I was thirsty for a break.
I was always placed in the back of the desk rows so the thinner, shorter children could see over the atlas moth I resembled. I was drowned in the crowd by the sixth graders– the ultimate insult. I had never caught the attention of boys, since they were intimidated by me. Would their behavior have changed if they knew that I denied myself so much for them? Would I have stayed my hand from reaching for the raspberry cheesecake if I knew how little they would care? Charlotte got so many more flashes and waves from all the franchised males who lurked in the trees. The only attention I got was when we did the mile and the whole class was sitting there, waiting for my faltering body to finish the lap.
The summer of my thirteenth birthday, a boy tricked me into believing the spiders in my stomach were actually butterflies. He gave me the sun that I desired and, in return, he got the validation he solely wanted over and over again. I let him see the colors underneath my wings because I trusted him. He deceived me into believing that this was the perfect place for his huntress.
I was expecting the boy from the summer to be my spaniel and my grades to be perfect at the start of high school. I was beautiful: I lost so much weight, changed my style, and changed everything about myself. I was in the wrong. The boy ghosted me and ignored me like I was his used, shed cocoon that lay famished in the dirt. Not long after, he got a girlfriend, a girl who was the epitome of my larva. I was devastated after realizing he never really wanted me to share this home with him.
I finally felt excellent my freshman year. I won a national award for my poetry. I spilled all these emotions and hardships at the time onto the page. I transformed these feelings into lively, bright characters that danced around, seemingly in my imagination. Every achievement I earned, it was another gold star for me, but every achievement that I didn't receive felt like a lost opportunity.
Still, I felt like I had made absolutely no progress, since I hadn’t received validation from anyone externally, or even from myself. That’s what I wanted most. I never liked disappointment. In my mind, every mistake I made was something wrong with me.
My parents recognized my successes,and I assumed they expected me to live up to expectations that were somehow set, not by me or them, but naturally occurring. I had never gotten in trouble, and the day I was caught for having gum in my mouth terrified me, because I didn't want my parents to discover my perfect seven-year-old reputation had been tarnished. It took years to realize that my parents accepted me, flaws and all. Truly believing that they were proud of my accomplishments was an ancillary benefit.
I wrote a lot. My parents knew nothing about how much I wrote and journaled and I still don't wish to uncover those anxiety-filled stories that will remain intertwined with my childhood. The boy from the summer was my long standing entity that could never own those journal pages like Mason did. He was always consuming the shelves of my mind and taking up more space than he should have. He would have looked better on paper. Yet the only thing I kept from my experience of him was my national award. By the time I had won it, he had already departed out of the thick air, a raven escaping into night. He knew nothing about the iota of credit he deserved.
I have finally uprooted the secret that has been shaking my trunk: I am an exile. My home, such as it has been, is not and has not been a place that I can remain. I have been accused of being an outcast time and time again, and I have been deaf to those accusations, until now. I cannot be the blackened door mat. I was put here by chance and forced to live surrounded by spiders.
I’ve come to feel like a lion trapped in a petting zoo. My greatest achievements have yet to come, but for now I am barricaded by spider webs that have tied me to this void. When I find the place where destiny will put me, I will know it and so will everyone else. I could merely lay on my side as children pet me and I’m fed raw steaks from a safe distance, but acceptance of this fate is no more in my nature than it is in the nature of a butterfly to remain in her cocoon. If the caterpillar has no room to grow, how could other caterpillars that rest below the ground sing out to her once she emerges from her cocoon? Once my wet wings sense the direction of their pull, the only thing I’ll be able to do is soar over this ephemeral ‘home’. That lion inside will rupture her cage, for I cannot be trapped for long. I have seen the best and worst of all the devious spiders that think their minuscule arms could even dare to put the lion down. Instead, they’ll see a butterfly weave her way through their best webs while they are caught in their own machinations. They'll see a lion roar back at the rising sun.
