the-write-collective

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 31

Bluebell: memories

Sleepy's submission under cut

and at your back, goodbye

the wind was at your back when you dropped off the edge of the world, like it asked you to fall, like it drove you to dive;

the night was ebbing in and out like the sea when you woke up under a starless sky, like it wanted you to leave, like it never could;

the moon waned into a crescent so it could hold the sun’s light when it dawned, like it cherished the burning, like it was more for being less;

the wind was at your back when you stopped to tie your shoes, like it wanted you to run, like it wanted you to stay;

the end was all a morning couldn’t help but say goodbye to, don’t ask me to to say goodbye to you- please don’t.

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 30

Trumpet creeper: boundless enthusiasm

Sleepy's submission under cut

I like people that are unburied, because I can talk in regular tones and get straight to the point: hi, nice to meet you, don’t mind me founding your family. But the buried ones are not to be neglected, and I can love them as much as they let me and when they poke their heads above the soil I’ll smile bright as the sun.

And for things that are not people, I don’t mind either way, unless someone is shoveling back the dirt that I just took out and it’s a struggle to reach the treasure I’m seeking for not because it’s very hidden, but because someone is working against me.

But! Not all things should be unburied, and some of them are not meant to be mine. And that’s alright.

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 29

Yarrow: bravery

Sleepy's submission under cut

half-hewn, smoky blue, edges

The thing is, I prefer to show you myself as half-polished, only part of my surfaces catching the light. It is easy to roll over and change the way I’m shaped when I’m still in progress. And I fear, that the day I am fully hewn and shining under the sun, taken up and set away in a place for jewels, you will no longer wish to see me. Our edges share no roughness, our growth together is at an end. I wish always to be with you - unfinished - and shine brighter when I’m dead. I, of course, long to be beautiful, but I long much more to be loved.

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 29

Elderflower: healing

Sleepy's submission under cut

jasper and juniper

The trees here grow red roots.

But the rivers are a blistering agate so I suppose it makes sense. The roots drink up the river and the red sinks into their bones. The leaves are still green, but not the ones nearest the branches.

We don't eat the fruit from the trees with red roots. We don't drink from the jasper waterfall.

We walk down the hill in boots that take long strides, eating up the grass as we go. Daisies grow under the junipers down in the valley. They turn red up in the hill, where they drink the river and blush all day. It doesn't hurt them, just changes their face.

At the elbow crook of the valley there's a spring with calcite at the base, pink and yellow glittering up through the water to dance in our eyes. We dip our pots in and pull them back covered in ice. When we put down dirt with our long-stride boots as we hike back up to the houses, the ice melts and soaks into our skin.

It hurts a little, but a scrape will sting when it's cleaned, and skin will ache when it's being made new. We drink our health from the spring and go into the vermilion waters when we can no longer see.

The dark is never unfriendly, but rather welcoming. A red world is not a curse, nor a place to stay. Jasper falls down the cliffs and comes clean as snow when it rises with the sun.

The trees drink the river, we drink the spring. But when there is no light, they are made of the same thing.

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 28

Bleeding Heart: expressed emotion, rejected love

Sleepy's submission under cut

the closeness keeps us apart

you were lilacs and a window and a blessing in disguise. there was easy absinthe in the way you lied. I hated you at first glance.

the ribbed sweater, the glass in your eyebrow, the creak in the floorboards when you crept past my door. you left wood smoke on the table and your shoes lying in the sink. the lines of your countenance were an affront to the eyes. I closed mine.

for a moment there was so much silence in thunder that I was trembling with the sound. there truly is nothing louder than this cold that surrounds. I could still hear you aching when you showered in the rain. if you have to be so close to me, why must you be in pain?

you were thorns at the doorway and broken plates on the welcome mat. there was easy emptiness when you shook the night from your elbows. I hated you and it showed.

but don’t leave me, and hold me closer while we bleed because I can bear anything but the space. I know we’re not okay. I know.

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 27

Ranunculus: radiant charm

Sleepy's submission under cut

she dressed herself in midnight with a sparrow on her arm. she wore shoes of ice and rings of light and perfumed herself in charm. she smiled with teeth of gold and with every petaled word did harm. she strangled the moon with shadows. she never could get warm.

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 26

Petunia: anger, resentment

Sleepy's submission under cut

but I was a saint you couldn't own

you were a burden, you and your endless greed; a plea strung out on clotheslines and crushed flowers in the streets a momentary act of indecision in the space between heartbeats a stumbling of flightless birds over sand and soot on hobbled feet

you were a cage, you and your endless need; a draping of powder and paint and insecurity a glare two seconds too soon to be recognized or seen a maw wider than the bites for horridly blackened teeth

you were a warpath, you and your endless screams; a tightening of broken fingers on a cut that will always bleed a yesterday of sorrows too unsightly for tomorrow’s reprieve a message for another to cherish while pining for a moment’s heat

you were a villain, you and your endless greed; a voice for the void and your endless need a nightmare to escape all your endless screams a memory for me to forget, above anything

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 25

Foxglove: insincerity

Sleepy's submission under cut

you, of air, and I, of ashes

what do you think of me?

do you see the splinters in all of my fingers or the way moss creeps up my neck to suffocate my speech?

do you see how I clamp down on my tongue with baby teeth how I insist my legs hold my weight despite their bent for breaking?

do you feel the breadth and width of this side you’re taking? can’t you see that it’s taking over you and how you are so far from me?

do you feel the holes in your reasons when your hand is at my throat? are you going to establish ambiance by giving me your coat?

let me at least feel my hands and feet while you steal the breath from me do you happen to have a lighter? (I can see that you’re shaking)

what do you think? is there space enough for flames to find clear purchase on our skin? do you want to lose? do you have the guts to win?

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 24

Myrtle: good luck

Sleepy's submission under cut

ash and amber

so one time I swallowed a desert, one time it followed me home. it sat upon my doorstep and it kept me all alone. it shifted through my albums and taught me how to cry. I couldn’t find my tears because the desert drained me dry.

I linked strings to all the memories I’d buried with the sun. I dug them up and took a look at all that I had done. the desert sat beside me, sat inside me, wrung me out. I plowed through sand and sadness and refused to sit and drown.

so one time the desert ate me, consumed me, body and soul. and I clawed my way out, and climbed my way up, until at last I was a semblance of whole. and the desert did desert me, and I stole back all my tears, and I lingered in the spaces where I once had hid my fears.

I stabbed every single enemy, I found my courage in the light.

So one time I swallowed a desert, but it didn’t swallow my fight.

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 23

Snapdragon: deviousness

Sleepy's submission under cut

to burn a pretty thing, to kill a pretty king

that’s a pretty crown you’re wearing, would you give it to me? the fire can keep it warm while I draw scorch marks on your skin. I promise I’ll give it back eventually. and it will cling on tighter and sink in. I’ll mold it to fit you. I’ll melt it to hold you. I’ll smile while I smelt you. I’ll kill you to gild you.

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 22

Aster: patience

Sleepy's submission under cut

to drown in summer, to drink its wonder

like most things that creep through summer grasses, it was slow, and all at once the rain hung still in the air while I choked on chocolate dirt that was after I leaned so far out of the car window that I kissed the lines on the road

the snakes are to be expected, a warning easily avoided a weapon, and a snowfall the rain dripped down my legs from the frogs in the sky, poached by unforgiving sunshine there was winter in July and I've never been so cold while my fingers sit singed on the dock

it hits like lightning, you think, I believe, and so I never saw it coming the bite, the breath of the trees the rain filled up my insides before I could scream, drowning me in my own skin that was after I had given up my freedom for a taste of tomorrow, but now I'll never know

like most things that summer hides in aching and respite it was slow, and all at once the rain, the winter, the flood, the aftermath I hung up my tongue on the dashboard and slipped down the driveway

after all, we are only ever destined to be yesterdays and so, it seems, am I

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 21

Snowdrop: hope

Sleepy's submission under cut

My tears taste bittersweet Oh what's become of me? I cannot see from my eyes

There're wolves outside my door I cannot be here no more Need to parse through the lies

That I'm turning like the Leaves of autumn Shriveled, soon to be forgotten Falling from the place of life I'm not losing all the best of me Nor am I void of what I can't see I can turn around and try Again I can always try again

Like new growth in frozen soil It takes a while, it takes some toil But I can start anew

With a heart facing the sun I'm ready to try to be anyone Ready to take a breath and bloom

I'm just turning like the Leaves of autumn Changing 'cause the season's coming Soon I'll be all full of life I'm not losing all the best of me I'm not void of what I can't see I can turn around and try Again I can always try again

Forward like a new horizon Bursting like a brighter light I am here to make a mark Nothing grand and nothing special Only what I need to be Here I am, the smallest star

But it's me Turning like an autumn leaf Not afraid of what I can't see

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 20

Chamomile: unity

Sleepy's submission under cut

echo

You lived inside my shirtsleeves, a ghost of a second sight. You traced fingers down my collarbone, a tentative, searching sigh. You breathed on every other beat, a hindrance to my nights. You kept me guessing for the answers, and longing for a sign. I stumbled on your footprints, on the trail you left behind. You echoed in the morning, in the sunlight, in my eyes.

And I reached for you in darkness, because your absence left me blind.

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 19

Zinnia: endurance

Sleepy's submission under cut

white, creased, 12. times new roman

of course I have opinions, and on many subjects that have so many differing viewpoints that the thumbtacks have entirely covered the pincushion.

and the subjects I have opinions on are so entirely covered, from all sides and all at once, so if I’m to give my own to you I’d rather do it on a wrinkled sheet of paper just so that you can read it, but not all of it.

some things are left unknown if not unsaid altogether you know something of my thoughts and I have kept up my end of the bargain; presumably, you asked and I answered, and still there is some mystery left afforded me in the vagueness of that paper’s contents.

opinions are easy to have and easier to give, but poke quite a bit upon receiving, so in an effort to save my skin and my sanity, I maintain my right to have and not share everything, to present to you that wrinkled bit of sentiment and let you divine what you will from it.

if you believe something false about me in the end I still won’t mind, for I never lied to you, I never was a wall.

you think what you like and I’ll do the same, and the pincushion has plenty of holes already.

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 18

Forsythia: excitement, anticipation

Sleepy's submission under cut

the night of the heist

strawberry moon the night of the heist we slink around corners to find the right light the tidal pools are radiant their blood running silver falling up to the clouds with the heat and the fever strawberry moon the night rings you close we're thieves in the dusk, in the shadows the waterfall is frozen its waters staid with ice no blood here to collect but pale skin and sharp knives strawberry moon the night we came to die we creep up on gravestones like a sunrise the stars are watching our bloodlust and treasure the moon drips in molecules with diamond tears and pressure strawberry moon the night of the heist summer hums with fever we're stealing back our birthright

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 17

Columbine: foolishness

Sleepy's submission under cut

Phantasm

told you to wait by the well stand by the old stones still damp with dawn’s perspiration but instead you sat on the edge casting a shadow twice your size across the yard I laughed to see you so larger than life and you leaned back and I gasped told you not to lose your grip on the chains holding you up hang there a minute while my feet find the ground but instead you echoed in spirals while you shrank from my sight the sun shines so bright where I was and you leaned back and I gasped I saw your eyes in the depths but nothing else felt myself slipping into your arms heard you sigh in my ear “you’re here”

[the-write-collective]

A Bouquet of May Day 16

Poppy: sleep

Sleepy's submission under cut

between two eyelids

I can hardly dream if I don’t sleep, but I remember them chasing me awake.

I open my eyes like an old book in the attic. the dust of the seasons rest on my cheeks. the sunlight is bright. it must be midday at least.

is there a time when I can feel the hours leaking through my fingers? I think I’ve lost the clock from my dreams, the ones that chase me awake.

I’m sleeping; I’m not.