Trine Søndergaard, Interieur, 2007-12
c-print on dipond
(Source: frenchtwist, via journalofanobody)
Throw the key into the sea
Sink into ocean’s infinity
Toes in the soaking sand
Arms interlock for the last time
Staring at the disappearing sun
Granting myself one last drop of tears
Flowing freely, staining my cheek
One last moment of concern
I allow my lung to breathe
This is my goodbye.
If I
called this
a poem
Would you
listen
closer?
-heididanae
midnight&metaphors: a nineteen year old memory.
Nobody ever told me that chasing down butterflies and taking off their wings was such a crime. I was five when I ran among the tall grasses that reach up to my waist; and believed that beautiful things will never be less even if I pick up a hundred butterflies. So I ran and caught them with as much alacrity when I held them in my hands, and guilt, when I removed their wings. There were times when I thought my mom would hate me if she finds out that the little box under my bed contained dead wings of blue and yellow and mauve, she might think I was selfish because I didn’t share my world to her, so I just stared at her when she ask me how my day was, and waited for the fudge to settle. I got sick by the end of summer and I ended up wetting my bed, I was so scared that she was going to come bursting in my room, all angry. The moment she turns on the light I decided to cry in silence while agonizing in the putrid smell of my own demise. But my mom understood, in a way that I will ever understand. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to” I said, and then she told me the only thing I remember of her saying, before she died, “Even if you do this a hundred times, You’re still my baby and I love you, Okay? You know those wings you took off the butterflies?” I nodded. She knew it all along. “I believe that doesn’t make them less of a beautiful creature. You are who you are, with all your parts: the beautiful and the broken ones.” I fell asleep, thinking that my mom loved me, and she loved me enough that I no longer needed to ask where my father was. That night I had her, and she held me with her arms as though they were wings. That night, she flew towards the sky, leaving me without them.
I refrained from
writing about love,
about you,
because they
all look the same —
all asking
you to come
back.
The leaf rustles to
sweet nothing,
tickling a droplet
to explode on earth.
You may feel that it’s
these bundles of pills
that define what you are,
the needles that
measure
how you are,
your body and skin
that clarify
who you are.
Disregard them
for a while.
They are not
as much as
your soul —
your journey
collected,
all the love
consolidated.
We are
not atoms,
or gravity,
nor how science
seek to explain
and define.
We are
the melody
within.
hope
flowers bloom
in winter too;
jasmine, iris,
snowdrop.
a few of them
stood, shivering
in the cold,
pure.
-
hope is here,
no matter
where you are.
She told me I was an accident. There were slight glisters in her eyes as she carefully brushed my hair away. We were on the verge of bankruptcy, she said. Despite great protest, she was attempting and hoping for a miscarriage. The night when I was born, she needed to be on the computer to meet her client’s deadline. I saw her shifted from regret and guilt to an appreciative smile as she hugged me tight and planted a gentle kiss. I thought about fate, how fragile it could be, yet the purpose they serve.
Exams are approaching. I will be away for a few weeks.
