Murder-In-Air

In the beginning, there was the airport. Well, this is the place for drained out students and sexy soccer players coming and going to buses, far away from any actual planes, but that's beside the point. It was cold, concrete and windy and then: THE BUS! Where the emergency exit is next to another exit... Do you get it... Yeah? Yeah, bad joke, and we got our first taste of the british highway system in speed or lack thereof. Either way, we had our tired, sleeping bodies bussed into the outskirts of London and wow. WOW. GORGEOUS. It was breathtaking, and I couldn't think of a way to describe it, staring out in awe at a non-American landscape,

Biting tips of pens and sitting Sitting in anticipation- I wipe Mascara off my cheek- Breaking pens and waiting Waiting to love you from A great distance of mind and thought Thought you'd remember and you did And you smile so bright and Nose to nose, forehead to forehead and Crescendo to two birds- lost, Wandering, flying: never home, never rest Until the last breeze of air comes by A gust- iknowyouknow

Playing / Silence The glasses are daddy's and he needs them to see I can see the whole world But it's upside down -- Why is that so? In my hands, daddy's shoes are so big, his shirt can't be tucked in and all there is in my little hands are yards of waist to daddy's pants I run and I can't keep up and I fall and can't stop (I close my eyes and begin to cry wondering if I'm that little girl to my daddy - now... )

I set my feet on the ground and pick the crumbs out from between the keys and keep typing. The little soldiers and girls with blonde hair walk by beneath my window to the hum of the towering power plant heckling and heaving and it's so loud all the things I wish I could yell down to them about scale would get washed away in sound. There's a destroyed building across the street I am mourning, a one thousandth scale recreation of insecurity, and the tiny yellow crane curls and takes the room made of windows. The gray sky hangs heavy and as I drink, the coffee gently slides down, ripping a little at the back of my throat, my o

Dear Mr. Shahzad, My name is Sarah, and I live in the middle of the east coast, where it's full blown summer right now. The greens seem to dance with the sun near the end of the day, juxtaposed quite nicely next to the blue sky and cirrus clouds. It's beautiful this time of year. I'm waiting, now, at the end of high school, waiting to poll-vault into college, where I want to major in English, specializing in creative writing with a minor in linguistics. I love telling stories, making smiles pop across faces, because I've usually been a very silent person, creating great distances from others. Telling a story helps me open up, connect with

It’s the slowest goodbye anyone can feel. When their faces don’t disappear forever. They fade. It comes in little pieces: Missing eyes Faded tongues Bent backs In the memories they left behind. And decades become blurry panels in a picture-book. And I can’t read the words anymore. It’s too hard to read with eyes covered in cataracts. I mouth the words in the dust: Little adjectives Few nouns Millions of pronouns And it hurts as the dirt folds into the creases of my fragile skin. Because there’s no one left who knows what has happened. Because no one wants to know. There’s no one here. S

Sometimes I wonder Dark deep delicious dreams, Harold never taught them. Hideous words work, If my head is real Angled by the folds of grey matter, I was what I was. Entangling little ones in play, Or if all the thoughts I have Never to touch by space so small between. Driving south of an Isthmus pass. Rich colors they spread, Is someone else’s dream. Girls grinning golden gallantries Escape with the family who lied. Endangering all it touches. So when I die, Ether exposed nothing outside So I can snake away, inside. It is because Rather, wash it clean My dream-maker has woken up.