Despite some personal Sisyphean boulders, I’m making the most out of my last semester at university, seeing the city at night with people for whom I am grateful, and writing pieces I enjoy. If this is how the intersections of Mercury retrogrades and eclipse seasons are, please, by all means, sign me up for more!
Author: Allison Lee
He is wondering why I went off script the first time around instead of playing the role I was supposed to play in his head. And so could I really blame him for choosing to work with an understudy?
It is cannibalistic—my love—for I will strip off parts of my God-given self to sustain your being. It is like this that everyone who knows you thereafter has to learn the taste of my flesh. Let my demise postpone your decay.
Blooming is more tedious an act than most dare to answer to. It is difficult to feed into the belief that beautiful things come to be so through suffering. Is there a conscience to beauty? Where does it lie?
I’m out with lanterns looking for myself. I’m setting fireworks to scare off my fears. I’m red all over but not in the way the celebration has intended—instead with bite marks and fingernail imprints…
Your moving on looks like swimming; mine looks like drowning. Do not confuse me for attempting to subdue you with the blue, I am only trying to prove to you its existence.
I can’t seem to stop thinking that there is something wrong with me, like I swallowed an inherent flaw during a premature Christmas dinner that has since lodged itself in my lungs such that every time I inhale, I am reminded of its splintering existence.
I will fall some more in this life, but I will fall better. I will look at the scenery as I fall. Instead of thinking where I’m going to land, I’m going to think about what I fell from, and remember that it was once mine to hold onto.
There is no way of remembering how it felt to lie in my crib
with four walls that constituted my whole world
I wonder, often, if I were to lie in it once more
would it feel more like lying in my mother’s arms
or like lying in a lidless coffin?
Then, I feel like a fraud. “Allison” isn’t even printed on my birth certificate; it is a corset I had sewn with my own two hands and forced myself to suffer until I could lace myself up in it, until there was a presentable image of myself…
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