darkened violins on empty screens turning into eyelashes. sitting comfortably and wishing for the rest of the world to be swallowed up by the mouth of a plaster wolf. dissolving down into metal and disappointing days of lying down . watching mountains made of blue and gold. giants watching baseball through the string of a violin. tied to the yellow rain boots of flying geese next to the ocean of oil paintings. while you boulder on across the water. doing your best to reach the yellow light
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rooms full of bodies on purple smoke. through vents of blue plastic skin. I see you breathe into. even as the others admire your death under the fluorescent lights of red eyes. looking unto the shoulders of dinosaurs. in the arms of sculptors out on a sea of worlds. overflowing with the bricks of new societies and languages of skeletons. smiling at blue butterflies that now surround the waves of last breaths. now lost to broken oars
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when we sat at kitchen tables with half eaten apples in our hands. and the days turned out to be too much. and the nights did not dare show up in case you did not learn to appreciate the light of the stars in time. as our practices starve in locked cages when we fall asleep in the pause of vocals. clinking against fresh snow with the feeling of summer spilling out
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light and memories blow out the candle and hope to be let into the coves of capitalism. looking for a drop of sweat running down a body. to attach themselves under the blue trees we were all told to wear. no one notices the death of tired voices inside. telling us to jump into the tainted glass and let out the dark. where the paint mixes with our tears
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flowers have replaced the eyes of the skull. knowing these moments will be soaked up by the balloons dead from fighting. fingernails stuck deep into the skin of oranges. wasting for people. the rage of being a human being standing next to the watercolors of us
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white tears cover the voices of the displaced. now dissolving into the glass of raspberry dreams. inside holes of sunny skulls. fallen over the first yellow eyes of the still living but not still dreaming. when the woods of failed steps still follow the rivers of bones. fingers tapping their own rhythms onto the wooden floors. reaching out and knocking on pastel doors of the living as their breath pass them by and leave nothing but their fatigue. tied to the wrist of the quiet and trailing behind on the sand. like an expired blue balloon who thought it could fly among the kites
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stand in front of windows and show us to be calm. so we can copy the rest of us on green churches. cut by the light. opening all doors with words we do not understand. meant for the beings inside of us chirping like birds that have found water outside forests. forms filling up air for those who have come to fight the coming from unknown coves
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looking out the window to cease the outside world. pretending we cannot take creatures with our hopelessness. where we stand in the call of patterns. bringing us back like a rope into the sighs of being untouched by love. crowding our hope and not letting us belong to the wonder of horses sinking into the ground
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listen to the break in the wind when my senses doubt the attachment of your purple string to the sun. trying to make themselves small and unbroken by human eyes. as we sit in the metal railing supporting the becoming of people. pink clouds going around places with locks and studios to fill up. inside giant photographs that you see outside eyes. condemn us to months with no light. to look at the photos in your hand
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I know that you mostly wish we had dried our skin to the bone. but this home is safe and this home is here. even if you move the wrong ribcage and cannot sleep. claws that are now a sweater that does not seem to fit you. alone in the ink that comes out distorted by the fog of a hundred earthquakes. of twenty thousand cats spilled out on the slanting hills. edging closer to the passenger side. hoping they had a few more hearts
Olga Gonzalez Latapi (she/her/hers) is a queer poet with an MFA in Writing from California College of the Arts. Although her writing journey started in journalism, she is now pursuing her true passion: exploring the world of poetry with a mighty pen in hand. She got her BS in Journalism at Northwestern University. Her work has been published in Teen Voices Magazine, Sonder Midwest literary arts magazine, BARNHOUSE Literary Journal, Wild Roof Journal, Impossible Task, Genre: Urban Arts, Biscuitroot Drive, iaam.com, and The Nasiona Magazine, among others. Originally from Mexico City. Twitter: @Olga_G_L. Website: letolgatellyouastory.tumblr.com.