Storage

The attic of 

my mind is a 

mess:

habitually storing

things away, 

I pack 

sepia photos of memories 

little vials of unresolved emotions

every word I (n)ever said

 

into cardboard boxes 

that crinkle and

fold at the edges,

in the corners

they collect dust 

piled and

teetering ever so slightly 

on the verge of 

collapse.

And although 

the floorboards creak 

under the weight and 

many of the boxes spilling

contents in their rot 

I cannot get myself 

to pick up the broom and 

sweep them out

and so the things are 

left as they are 

to weigh down on me 

and decay.

Crook of the Neck

In the crook of my 

neck right above 

the collarbones 

where women dab their perfume 

and lovers' kisses are placed 

lies a spot

where the skin is 

soft

fragile

(so easily bruised)

and if I sat there quietly, 

you would be able to 

see the vein 

beating 

pulsing 

(delicately just so)

or perhaps you'll feel it 

accelerate beneath 

the brush of fingertips

in a wave of 

tingling 

rushing

(oh).

Garden

My teacher told me,

"Everyone has a plot of land, 

and you can find out a lot about them 

by seeing how they tend to it." 

---

I wonder what 

you'd learn if you 

saw the garden I tend to: 

a small wooden gate 

swings easily open 

(don't worry about the latch, 

it's never closed);

small paths of

earth well-traveled

wind around patches of 

greenery into which

towering dahlias 

and carnations paired 

with the soft brush of 

wildflowers grow 

tamely; 

in the center of it all 

stands a single rowan tree 

holding onto its 

ruby berries, 

two benches planted 

at its roots
(you're welcome to sit and stay).

But maybe your eyes will travel
to the locked gate behind the
rowan that leads to a shaded
thicket and a trickling stream that you
can hear but can't see; 

covered in vines 

and old with rust, 

towering over the heads of those 

that approach it, 

most are content in the 

primness of the flowers and have 

never seeked a way in.

If I gave you the key, 

would you explore it

and try to find me there?

"This is a Photograph of Me" Version 2

This is an edited and expanded version of the memoir I posted a couple of weeks ago (this is the version of it that I actually got marked on in class).
Enjoy!

There’s something about being above the rest of the world that makes my heart rush. Sitting in the trundling and rocking cable car and feeling the wind blowing through my hair felt freeing; I was away from the screeches of 7-year olds too hyped up on cotton candy and neon vortexes, away from the smell of boiling oil mixed with cloying sugar, away from the pull and push of the couples and families that clogged the streets below. The glare of yellow lights was now below my feet, balanced out by the night sky.

As I sat up there, I glanced over at my cousin Ariana snapping photos of the fireworks sparkling above the stadium. I remembered her telling me about the newest photo trend she had found on the internet.

"It's pretty cool," she said, chomping down on her poutine, "people take photos of their feet from where they're standing, post it on Instagram, and tag it #fromwhereIstand."

Out of all of the photo projects my cousin told me about, this one fascinated me: the idea of people leaving behind their marks in moments they deemed important or beautiful enough to commemorate in a single photo was foreign to me. In all of my photographs, I always leave myself out of the photos.

"How could I leave a permanent mark on a scene that looked so much better untouched by my presence?" I asked myself. I don't pluck the delicate purple and white flowers that litter the Brickwork trails; instead, I take photos of them rustling under the weight of butterflies. I don't leave behind footprints on the beach; instead, I take photos of the waves washing the traces of other people away. I don't join the group photos at school dances; instead, I take photos of everyone smiling and laughing. I am only the observer, not the participator.

And yet, as I peered down at the CNE, there was a sudden blind rush as I was driven to fumble for my camera to snap a photo of where I "stood." There was nothing special about the park for me; it was just a tourist beacon. But at that moment, there was a temporary magic that felt unshakably beautiful and important. I leaned back carefully, stuck out both of my feet, and snapped a quick shot. The lift wobbled as I leaned back forward, and for one panicky moment before I grabbed the safety bar, I thought I was going to pitch forward.

I settled back into my seat and clicked the camera to playback mode. As I glanced at my camera screen, I was surprised to see how well the photo had turned out. There was the greyscale darkness of the night sky and my feet against the bright warm tones of the CNE. The bar that obstructed the lower part of the photo was more than just that: it was the safe barrier of being an outside perspective that I reached beyond to make an imprint. It was a captured moment of chiaroscuro that I couldn’t have imagined composing.

It’s always about the chiaroscuro: finding the balance between dark and light, between observation and participation, between suspension and falling. And it’s when I find that balance that I can leave my own marks behind.

Pristine Condition

My heart isn't in pristine condition,

tiny stitches runs up its

walls where it took 

two pieces and made them 

(somewhat) whole again,

bruised from the 

times it has proven itself 

(again and again) that it's too big 

for my ribcage to hold,

fluttering with any

anticipation and the ensuing 

anxiety of rushing

(terrifying) feelings that fill it to the brim.

My heart isn't in pristine condition,

 

it's been hurt so many times

but it aches in want at 

the slight brush of 

your fingertips,

and if you'll take it 

with its stitches and bruises and

humming of aches 

I'd gladly surrender it to you.