apples and knives

Written by: Oriane Hong

a new fervent and lethal thought on new year’s

with an inner course of downstream tears,

i carved my heartbeats on the page

and added a tally to my blue age.

i waved it all goodbye, the golden past

on the stage— but it wasn’t my last.

clawed stones, bustling alleys, a mirage sunset,

windy loud bus rides in words i’ll never forget.

a forerunning funeral march by candlelight,

i lived by the moon and his distant presence at night.

but then i left a mask in the snow, ascending hopes,

slept in the cold blanket of japanese slopes.

until a crowd, a voice, a melody of grace surged

to heal the heart i wanted purged

from the honey eyes, my forbidden limerence,

the scarce smiles of luxury, my fall, and my decadence.

it shrouded me in vacancy, torturous silence

that cut into me like a lovelorn violence.

i may have left home, but the beach didn’t heal me.

art broken, a rope tugged away hospitality.

i tried to thread it together, woven in the magic

of a peasant girl’s love, however tragic

that the dance, that my chance, had come to an end

and that i felt like i had lost a friend.

so i escaped, fled like ariadne who lost her thread.

to paris where his shadow burnt in red,

to vienna where i met a painter with fairy vision

to london where i met an orphan with infinite reason.

but then i returned to see my iron lady

and the silence was broken temporarily.

i was showered in uncautious affection

that i tasted blind in the portent of affliction.

oh! and god! it was brutal!

i couldn’t have known, september, how fatal

the strike of solitude once again!

the weight of reminiscence made me drop my pen.

like a spiral to get a glimpse of forgotten darkness

i plunged into the styx of sadness, of quiet madness.

my my, my mind, my mind! a hole in my chest

unknown in his regard—the pain put me to the test.

so i got up once more, patched it up for the stage

a choice to free my voice, untethered from this cage

for the constance in my life, the warm fire

with whispered secrecy, the company i knew wouldn’t tire.

and laid upon my tongue a few more winter colors,

paid my thank yous in fifteen soulful letters.

and i said goodbye, to the pull and the tide,

apples and knives, grappling but alive.