in the old beach house, Natalia Tola Maldonado
somewhere between the skinny highway
leading to the ocean
and
the small velvet boxes
i used to keep lovers names
…i found trails of my old teenage self,
how i loved in this unbroken melody of heartbeats louder than a 60s ballad…
and yet i tiptoed my way through
life and its fairy lights
terrified of small paper cuts, curfews and
and apple red crushes
i cut myself into lunch box halves for anyone
who showed a little affection
a little affection and there i was,
laughing at your barely funny jokes as my heart flew all the way to
the unmarked side of the moon
how i yearn to go back to a time where my soul was small and green!
recklessly in love with butterfly rings and other flimsy things!
i miss that feeling when you meet another person and love is a strange language that
cuts through you somehow
presses you somehow
back then,
i wrote you everywhere,
purely in cursive letters
how there’s just something about your eyes—glassy like you’re punch-drunk on secrets
my tea and my monday daydreams would be consumed entirely by you
but innocence is as funny thing
you don’t know you’ve had it until you lost it
and i’ll dip my old ballerina shoes into
controversy,
i’m not grateful for the reasons i lost it
not grateful for the heartbreaks
that ate out my heart and then my hands! making me into a poet and a smoker!
because now i’ve grown to love the
bitterness of salt rims and wine coloured nails
i would eat my younger self for breakfast
(and tell her to not car crash her way through love)
life’s a play and i’ve forgotten my lines, Gökçe On
between notes app poems
and declarations of love in nineteenth-century scriptures
i look for myself
unsure, and (at least somewhat) determined
i track myself down
in the words i wrote in the past
in the words written by dead people i never got to meet
in the words spoken by strangers on transit
all of a sudden,
i’m in the middle of a crowd
green flashing lights surrounding me
i don’t know where i am
did i ever know for sure?
there’s something wrong with me
every time i blink,
i keep thinking i’m back home
with sand under my feet and the sun shining on my face
but home is oceans away – and i’m stuck here
in the middle of this
crowd of people
i keep looking for a familiar face
a safety person, someone to hold on to
i don’t know any of these people,
but they all seem to know me
did i forget their faces
or maybe just their names
how i met them, and how we ended up in the same place?
violent lights and
violent kisses,
shades of violet,
and the feeling of missing
why do i miss people i’ve never met?
pretty boys in tasselled vests kissing
one of them looks exactly like
a friend i used to know in high school
achingly nostalgic
you haven’t known freedom
until you’ve seen two pretty boys kiss
without getting harassed
it’s the type of freedom children feel when playing without thinking about the time
the type of freedom you feel swimming in the crystal clear sea as the light reflects on the surface
creating psychedelic shapes and colours
blinding you a little
in the best way possible
The unbecoming of strangers, Natalia Tola Maldonado
i recall when you threw out my name
into the unknowing thrill
of april’s dark
a skinny figure peeking in the middle of
9 PM shadows
and the most imposing yellow house in your blue neighbourhood
as you called out for me on our third date,
your voice was a
sweet but lemony thing
my name being drank like a strange,
foreign bottle of limoncello
as i made my way through
your dress shirt rolled up to your
elbows,
or your
secretive black curls exploding and expanding
my heart sang and hummed to the tune of a new love, wondering if this would be
the last?
i couldn’t help but wonder
how many chances we get all
making human connections
that curse our body like
flaming birds escaping
rusted cages
how much luck can we wear out in a lifetime?
does it wash out of our blue jeans?
do we collect it out of
black cigarette ashtrays?
is it hidden in our childhood pyjamas?
how many times do we give out our last name? last favourite book? and last 20-dollar bet to
wondering
if this new love will be your last one?
writer’s block, Gökçe On
i don’t hear the sound of the keyboard clicking away anymore
i just sit
and
stare at my screen
waiting for a muse
or realistically
just a coherent thought
i know i want to write
it’s not a lack of enthusiasm
but whenever i sit down to put words on paper
it makes me feel sick
maybe it’s not the words
but what they remind me of
making me feel the pit in my stomach
the feeling of wanting to throw up
but not having the energy to
what is the opposite
of having butterflies in my stomach
worms?
cockroaches?
slimy, squirmy, sickening bugs?
something is eating away at me
i can’t put it into words
– how do you explain an abstract concept to someone who has never felt it?
i’ve forgotten all the words
in all the languages i know
and so, the words decided to forget me
just like you did
it’s just me and the keyboard now
no typing
no words
nothing
Spring in Montréal, Natalia Tola Maldonado
this is me writing old school
poetry
about old school
buildings,
blue windows and tiny girls in
beige berets
or the women outside the nightclub
holding each other tightly, almost to death
silent tears staining tight cocktail dresses
this is a gorgeous city mostly populated by
metropolitan, pretentious
rats and rubble
where people have little love, little sugar on their coffee and little battery on their phones to call you back
memories
are
only
short
vials
of playfulness kept in the bottom of tall, pink stiletto heels or
little green vials in downtown bars
the art of living is everywhere you look
violins echoing and mimicking the
violent street noises,
(old volvo cars clashing
and
                                           new lips crashing)
COVER PHOTO: Gokce On
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