i am fire without smoke
By Diana Vink, '21
and i know i am not dressed like a cathedral
but at my core there is only
a nameless vestibule of sorrow
like a confessional,
where i’ve dropped all my sins
to brew until they make the perfect
concoction of guilt and tired feelings;
it will inexplicably snap the cauldron
into a thousand little pieces
and spill out through stained glass windows
and creaking wooden doors.
maybe my skin smells of apples
but it tastes like dirty pennies
(i would know, i bit a chunk out of my left bicep this morning)
that you would never lay your lips on; my tongue is full of the potion i tucked in the basement
(the deranged home for divinity, my agnostic asylum, i am not dressed like a cathedral but there is one in my ribcage),
a small sacrifice for the deities
(that i don’t actually believe in)
for blessing me with the ability to keep a straight face while their home (my innards)
is flooding with misplaced misery and a feeling of overwhelming insignificance.
but at my core there is only
a nameless vestibule of sorrow
like a confessional,
where i’ve dropped all my sins
to brew until they make the perfect
concoction of guilt and tired feelings;
it will inexplicably snap the cauldron
into a thousand little pieces
and spill out through stained glass windows
and creaking wooden doors.
maybe my skin smells of apples
but it tastes like dirty pennies
(i would know, i bit a chunk out of my left bicep this morning)
that you would never lay your lips on; my tongue is full of the potion i tucked in the basement
(the deranged home for divinity, my agnostic asylum, i am not dressed like a cathedral but there is one in my ribcage),
a small sacrifice for the deities
(that i don’t actually believe in)
for blessing me with the ability to keep a straight face while their home (my innards)
is flooding with misplaced misery and a feeling of overwhelming insignificance.