I want to be written about in diaries.
Doodled in bathroom stalls.
Scribed on linoleum.
Circled in a phonebook.
Carved into the layers of paint on the deepest platform of Grand Central station.
I want to be mentioned in hushed tones,
over a bar counter.
In between sheets.
Under a cupped hand,
into a stream.
I want to be tucked
in the black and white
frayed spine
of a composition book.
Hidden in a wallet.
Squished under a pillow.
Pinched between sweaty fingers.
Buried in a tiny box between a feather and shiny penny.
I want to be found
in a tree with roots so deep they’ll grow even after
time has gone.
I want to fall first and land last.
I want to leave and never go.
I want this,
the dirt under my nails. Selfish.
If I ever got what I wanted.
About the Creator
Jane Did
A space for release; feelings of comfort, distress, dreams and waking nightmares. Posing to share as vividly as I can, I’m a Queens resident toeing the line on the weight of words and balance of emotion.
The Light Turns
It's Tuesday 7:13 a.m. A cold and clear November morning awaits Ray on his morning commute. Ray rubs his hands together in the front seat of his Subaru. He turns the air temperature up, but keeps the air on low until the air warms up. He looks at the backup camera screen and reverses the Subaru out of his driveway onto Trimble Road.
By John R. Godwina day ago in Fiction
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