Maryvale Muse

Untitled (January 2017 Contest, Second Place Winner)

Olivia Hynson '20

The key is to make me a doll and force me to bend.

The key is to rip out your own lungs in search of mine because I told you I lost them on the frontier of retribution.

The key is to melt into what you know and drown in what you don’t and never tell me that I’ve lost it.

The key is to shake the trees like my bones when you ignite me like charcoal and fuel and then see me in that burning pit and move closer so I can show you my only means of inking myself into what will later fall away.

The key is to tie up a flag not a man who is hung from his tie with his restrictive containment for fear of scratching the surface of the tupperware that had been molded to contain and, quite terribly, defend. The plastic melts down, filling the pores and irritating the eyes. Forcing them pry out the emotions through the sockets, twitching as the context of their depletion sinks lower into comprehension.

I was dropped into a pitcher of bitterness, scattering pieces of the universe and my existence across you.
I’ll touch all of your solar systems, rings on your planets
The very existence of life reduced down to the dust it was swept up to become.
The spine of this earth has gone and so it caves, creating what it began as.
Now all we have is touch, on what were memories of growth.

I rose, willing away the similarities among us, but I had no way of knowing if the room remained as I had left it.
The colors were still the same.
They have been that way before my eyes had learned of what it mean to be distinct.
I wanted to be the brick. I was told I couldn’t exist as an object but I wanted to be the brick. Not the color, but the action.

She was there. She was rust and brick. The reason I let her is because I thought I could learn to be these actions. If I stood in front of her I could watch the rust collect on my skin for a time and then realize I wasn’t exactly her.

She is my friend who drowned in a river; and that river was me. It explains why she rusted. I like being her river, her downfall. It makes my feel like the deepest ocean.

How old were you when you realized it wasn’t worth your time?

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The Literary Magazine of Maryvale Preparatory School
Untitled (January 2017 Contest, Second Place Winner)