Pursuit.
of a creamy, alabaster
self-affair.
The bona fide, ineffably kind affection,
in which even silence is understood.
Dignified in our hushed solidarity.
Accompanied by impudent spectators’ commentary:
To love oneself:
Shameful, selfish?
Uncommon or unpracticed?
Undue rap of our cheekbone
violates us back to
agonizing awareness.
Persist.
in all tribulations that argue a moral compass.
Authentic boldness of manhood
illustrated in our sturdy forbearance
that only a people, abhorred for generations,
could acquire.
Excellence of character—
Always ahead of its time.
And Progress.
an appointment made months ago—
carries century’s wait.
Wrath of life remains
an exasperating plague.
This continuous toll,
paid by virtue of a waking morrow.
Bide time,
to cling to our imminent truths.
The world’s retribution looms gross and heavy
in the wings.
Our overdue safety.
About the Creator
Maison Ray
Denver-based writer. Previously in New York to attend Pratt Institute and develop his artistry. With a self-described “violently pensive exploration of the lucid,” Maison tries to invoke an ethereal relation to the world through his work.
Keep reading
More stories from Maison Ray and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.