it's a lot like falling asleep on a bus or having cracked lips when you cry maybe like white shoelaces that aren't white anymore or my fucked up doodles about death. it's like how i pretend to understand things when i don't and tell people i want to say whatever i want because that's what they want to hear and maybe like quiet midsummer nights and a bag of different colored stones like how i used to think words meant things like how my favorite toy has a stupid ketchup stain or how its song died after i pressed the button too much. a little bit like yellow lined paper waiting for pens and hopeless romantics who met their prince ch

celebrate today. by StellaNotte, literature

Literature

celebrate today.

pieces of sweet sky pressed against the roof of my mouth and dipped in black ink that paints our past compressed into tiny tinsel dolls that repeat their history why, it's just like before! and she has different colored magnets on her fridge she says it's her collection, a work of art silver-tipped branches reaching for a drink of sky welcome to the miracle. and there you are, bare feet on dew-touched grass blades sifting through your toes and mountains in the distance trying not to fade but the moon eats them whole. it's like how a rainbow doesn't always form after storms like how memories are kept alive by sunspots peeking thr

island of mirages. by StellaNotte, literature

Literature

island of mirages.

i. and you were a believer in things. you told me make a wish upon a star, you told me that eyelashes were for blowing, and you told me so cracked ice was see-through. maybe. ii. sometimes i sit alone at night and let the moon eat the sky. you would never understand that because you were a believer in things and i was a skeptic of things and i said wildflowers were for stepping on, not for picking. you were too stubborn to hear the ugly truths and i was too stupid to see the sweeter ones. iii. a flimsy tinman with one leg rides a looseleaf boat to his master's house and the paperdoll princess falls in love. mere mirages of untruths.

eleven things to say. by StellaNotte, literature

Literature

eleven things to say.

eleven. I don't know where to start with you. My life at that point was a blur, a quick flash of drama where everyone seemed to hate me, loathe me, fear me. (Except for you, that is.) Maybe you pitied me or maybe your mom made you talk to me or maybe you really liked me after all. Where are you now, what have you achieved now, who do you embody now? I haven't talked to you in years and maybe you don't remember me. (And maybe you do.) I don't know. ten. I pretend not to understand you because I'm scared of the truth. Your scrap of truth, a tiny, measly little thing flung in my face, was something I wanted to avoid at all costs, but t

the tree in brooklyn. by StellaNotte, literature

Literature

the tree in brooklyn.

i. I don't like arithmatic, she said. Numbers that are always sure they're in the right place. Numbers that are always sure they'll know what to do. ii. His crystallic eyes scanned her face for reassurance. Fibonacci's lost thereom, he said. A mathematician. Sister, do you know what he and I believed? How nature is numbers and numbers are nature. iii. The tree in Brooklyn, he told her, is math. as a sapling he had one branch, and one branch only, one branch to reach for the sky and the sun and its glory. Then he had three. Then five. Then eight, thirteen, twenty-one... fifty-five. Fibbonaci's numbers. Infused with God. iv. There'

landing in 3... 2... 1. by StellaNotte, literature

Literature

landing in 3... 2... 1.

i. you told me you would fall off the face of earth. you liked the moon. you told me it was the passage to the great milky way. you told me the stars were the stepping stones over the water that was the night sky. comets, the igniting fuels that brought you around the world. ii. sometimes i want to break free from where i am and fly away. i am a bird. but birds can't fly away from the earth they are suspended to. for those who cannot out, the birds. we are stuck. iii. i tell myself i am a civilized human being but this is a lie. i know that i am not a part of society but i am the hole in my heart that grows hate the piece of my so

lamenting lullabies. by StellaNotte, literature

Literature

lamenting lullabies.

i. Silver films of stardust scope his azure eyes. He gazes fixedly upon the ripples of silk that is water and unwillingly sees the reflection of a desolate child shunned from society and deserted by family. ii. He liked to burn ladybugs with rose-colored glasses. No one knew why he enjoyed scorching them in the sun when summer was in bloom but maybe he wanted to see someone else suffer for a change. iii. Many people said he was a martyr of words. Daggers of pride hate prejudice went both ways because when they tormented him he would only try to punish them back. iv. Destroyed innocence could not be evoked in him. His piercing gl

writer's obsession with love by StellaNotte, literature

Literature

writer's obsession with love

You made me believe you loved me. Forever captivated by your voice, You told me all we needed was each other. You said, it don't matter, it's just us two, it's just us two, we won't be torn apart. And I believed you. Under your misty gaze, You told me all we needed was each other. You said, it don't matter, let them steal, let them steal, we won't be torn apart. Why did I believe you? Held by your caressing arms, You told me all we needed was each other. You said, it don't matter, ignore their words, ignore their words, we won't be torn apart. How I still want to believe. Why live life from dream to dream, you said.

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