I'm not where you are because time keeps moving

If days were numbered, they surely aren't anymore

I'm not where you are because time keeps moving

Sweet breeze after a bitter winter. Faces once frozen stern had now grown joyous with the return of spring, thawing like the river that ran behind the old barn.

Callused hands press

against sunset stained flesh

her mother spits,

tosses the fruit back.

Fiery colors melt above me

And I am not yet home

And by the time I am up

The sun still hides

Reminded how that day was.

The day that shouldn’t be remembered.

If I could trade lives with anyone for a day, I would trade lives with my cousin, Francie, who is 1 years old.

Naiad had a strange dream last night. She dreamt of dogs with long faces and burning sugarcane.

I needed you.

i jolt awake

breathing heavily

my chest heaving up and down

My family is used to moving. Catching a taxi after a ten-hour flight with nothing but eight suitcases and an address my dad’s work gave us.

Living life in the mind is similar to still art. It is a still, framed piece containing fragments of reality.

I stared at the yellow wedge in my hand, its juices leaking onto my fingers.

We are visiting Grandma today, Dad says, and I sigh.

Success, the decisive adjudicator for a life well lived.

“Untitled” by Sarah Selfridge

Somehow, throughout all this conspiracy, I managed to keep at the dictator’s side. I take pride in that.

I have seen horrible things.

I have seen things

you can not imagine.

I long to speak with the trees,

hear the whispers of their leaves on a windy day.

I long to gather their wisdom,