Thirty-One: Weeks Nine & Ten
Days fifty-seven through seventy
Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. Once again, I missed a week. Fatigue has had me in a perpetual state of semi-consciousness. So here’s two weeks’ worth of poetry for you. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them by clicking here.
Day Fifty-Seven (June 22nd) When I was around five or six, my parents gave me a lava lamp. The base was marbled purple and white, while the lava was a jewel-tone purple. I still have it. At night I like to watch the lava shadows bubble on the ceiling. They crash into and consume one another, but without my glasses on they’re merely fuzzy shapes drifting like the tides. Day Fifty-Eight (June 23rd) Text Message Today 5:03 PM “Cancel dinner with the sky tonight.” This sender is not in your contact list. Report Junk I will report junk. I will not cancel dinner with the sky. Day Fifty-Nine (June 24th) What was I saying? I can’t remember. I can’t remember much of anything anymore. Day Sixty (June 25th) I romanticize the oranges until their sticky juice on my hands becomes sugar magic in a world starved for something sweeter Day Sixty-One (June 26th) Blueberries burst between my fingertips. Their skins split open with the slightest pressure, blood and guts spilling from the wound, more purple and sweet than my own. With each handful, I hope for the ones that are a little bit sour, a citrus girl at heart. Day Sixty-Two (June 27th) Night talk shaded with lamp-glow intimacy conjures a desire for annihilation. But pauses linger longer in the candlelight. Day Sixty-Three (June 28th) My mom needs a new hip, and my body is standing in solidarity with her. Or rather, my good hip keeps popping out of place even though this has never been an issue before. Hips ahoy. Day Sixty-Four (June 29th) sleep is not enough waking time is spent dreaming tired at all times Day Sixty-Five (June 30th) Tomorrow I will inject my thigh with a drug that keeps my brain’s cannibalistic tendencies in check. Energy will return. I will feel like a person again. Day Sixty-Six (July 1st) Picking from a carton of strawberries, I find several with two tops. The bottoms aren’t split; they look like normal strawberries. But the leaves spread out from two distinct centers, and I pinch them all between my fingers as I devour the disguise of normalcy. Day Sixty-Seven (July 2nd) My pool float has a leak, but I’m not sure where exactly. For now, I breathe new life into it every time I ask it to support me. I continually resurrect it to do my bidding. Still, it never complains. Day Sixty-Eight (July 3rd) heat stifles my thoughts my fingers grasp at nothing summer afternoon Day Sixty-Nine (July 4th) I’m painting my bedroom, so I slept on the futon in my dad’s office last night. The night sounds are different on this side of the house. The air conditioner’s rumbles are clearer, like the green blob of a tree becoming individual leaves when I put glasses on for the first time. This fan, on the other hand, is quieter than my fan. I missed its rhythmic whirring as I drifted to sleep. Day Seventy (July 5th) There is no English word for the satisfaction we feel when our muscles are sore after a workout. No singular word carries the meaning painting the ceiling was time-consuming and more difficult than I imagined, but I’m feeling very accomplished now that it’s done. Even without words, my achy triceps bask in the sunlight reflecting around my brightened bedroom.
I’m offering this project for free, but if you’d like to support me (and get access to our poetry club), consider subscribing. That would be cool.
Wow, thick and lovely. Thank you