• September 14, 2017 |

    dark violet

    sweetening memories

    article by , illustrated by

    “hey,
    we’re living in a fucking
    incubator,”
    i say,
    deliriously battered by the
    summer haze;
    “but what does it matter?”

    picture us:
    top-floor apartment
    curtains closed shut
    tricking ourselves we have
    made the weather
                                   our subordinate.
    we       
                                   master manipulators

    twist and turn
    our glasses
                             of artificial wildberries
                             fermented
                             then imported,

    our tongues
                              an acquired taste of summer,

    our stories
                              since the dead
                              don’t speak.
                              so then who cares (or remembers?) if
                              my grandpa was actually a dick
                              because my mother
                              still recalls him fondly.

    i figured
    it’s easier to confess
    in past tense
    or when your blood is tainted;
    then there would be no difference
    between a revelation
                                          about
                                          having once fucked
                                          a much older redhead
                                          then suffering from ptsd
    or that about
                                          telling your mother
                                          you wish you hadn’t been born
                                          oblivious of her threatened miscarriage.

    really. no one cares.
    whatever is done
                                  is done.

    we are
                 easily forgiven
                 blissfully hidden
                 in our brash recklessness
                 and idealistic trust
                 in the wrong people.
    we
    cling onto
    the prettier pieces of our past
    sweetening memories
    and thinning them out
                                             through polaroid frames
                                             that are to be hung
                                             on the walls of our dorm rooms.