Juliet Lauren
Christmas lights to guide the LSD
I remember the beach.
How the swollen waves clawed the rabid sea-foam mouth
hungry for the shoreline and nothing else.
The unfortunate consistency of the sand
that perfectly matched
my hospital birthday cake frosting.
That was the thirteenth birthday.
During the mistake of you.
I remember the beach.
How the pristine water glimmered like broken glass.
The kind on good night street side walks.
I needed you to stay
even though you were sexually immoral.
I didn't get that at the time.
Steadying my breathing
because the brown eyed boy
didn’t love me anymore.
I always liked to compare his eyes to mocha.
That was before I was human.
My brain exposed to welts but not responsibility.
A child girl that knew all about tremble.
I remember the beach.
How the too hot heat enveloped.
The aqua colored affliction.
The shiny bottle green scene.
The piercing blue sky sheet.
The clouds like a heaven with cheap rent.
It shushed me it hushed me.
Rocked me to oblivion like a lullaby or a hookup.
And all before that I remember the diner.
Playing with sugar packets to avoid his gaze.
A suburban universe enclosed and sacred.
I remember the heaped piles of whipped cream on waffles.
The butter. The bread.
The screaming in my head.
I remember being fixated on creamer packets.
The ones you peel back.
Pour in.
Mixing the creamy abyss in my mug.
Watching galaxies erupt.
Chocolate beige milky swirls and sparkles.
I remember the pure merriment of
watching nothing become something.
Then suddenly being left
with nothing but a mediocre cup of coffee.
I remember the diner.
The talks of pills and bills.
The feeling of a suburban safe haven.
A breath of fresh air from the ambulance rides and sticky fingers.
From my self care routine of blood and vomit.
The little Greek restaurant with it's
closed walls against the cold world.
Against the snow and the streets.
The little infinity
of snowflakes melting into the shoulders of a coat.
Dimmed lighting better than a big budget movie.
Blinking eyes.
Brains adapting to perspective.
How could I forget?
And I remember the art shows.
The older men.
The middle aged men
eyeing me more than the paintings.
Taking my scars as a conversation piece.
Nobody really talks about it.
Probably cause girls try and repress it.
Pretend.
But if you're pretty at a young age
you'll find out plenty of men have pedophilic tendencies.
Curiosities.
It's funny how it blurs and then it's your whole life.
There's been almost no difference in stares and flirtations
from the ages of thirteen to nineteen.
But I remember the artist
who got drunk every show.
The kind of drunk everyone wishes they were
but hardly anyone is.
Jovial and breezy.
Kind eyed with a laugh that hugs.
He knew colors better than
whatever god that gets to paint sunsets.
Better than the human anatomy
that perfectly constructs a rich universe
in a pair of mocha colored eyes.
I remember the smell of spilled beer
and the sound of steps on cement.
The art that envelopes your heart
and the people who don’t.
I remember all of these things.
These things that slowly broke me
into a girl gone wrong.
Who only sleeps after she's pulled teeth
and said her prayers to Hollywood.
How the swollen waves clawed the rabid sea-foam mouth
hungry for the shoreline and nothing else.
The unfortunate consistency of the sand
that perfectly matched
my hospital birthday cake frosting.
That was the thirteenth birthday.
During the mistake of you.
I remember the beach.
How the pristine water glimmered like broken glass.
The kind on good night street side walks.
I needed you to stay
even though you were sexually immoral.
I didn't get that at the time.
Steadying my breathing
because the brown eyed boy
didn’t love me anymore.
I always liked to compare his eyes to mocha.
That was before I was human.
My brain exposed to welts but not responsibility.
A child girl that knew all about tremble.
I remember the beach.
How the too hot heat enveloped.
The aqua colored affliction.
The shiny bottle green scene.
The piercing blue sky sheet.
The clouds like a heaven with cheap rent.
It shushed me it hushed me.
Rocked me to oblivion like a lullaby or a hookup.
And all before that I remember the diner.
Playing with sugar packets to avoid his gaze.
A suburban universe enclosed and sacred.
I remember the heaped piles of whipped cream on waffles.
The butter. The bread.
The screaming in my head.
I remember being fixated on creamer packets.
The ones you peel back.
Pour in.
Mixing the creamy abyss in my mug.
Watching galaxies erupt.
Chocolate beige milky swirls and sparkles.
I remember the pure merriment of
watching nothing become something.
Then suddenly being left
with nothing but a mediocre cup of coffee.
I remember the diner.
The talks of pills and bills.
The feeling of a suburban safe haven.
A breath of fresh air from the ambulance rides and sticky fingers.
From my self care routine of blood and vomit.
The little Greek restaurant with it's
closed walls against the cold world.
Against the snow and the streets.
The little infinity
of snowflakes melting into the shoulders of a coat.
Dimmed lighting better than a big budget movie.
Blinking eyes.
Brains adapting to perspective.
How could I forget?
And I remember the art shows.
The older men.
The middle aged men
eyeing me more than the paintings.
Taking my scars as a conversation piece.
Nobody really talks about it.
Probably cause girls try and repress it.
Pretend.
But if you're pretty at a young age
you'll find out plenty of men have pedophilic tendencies.
Curiosities.
It's funny how it blurs and then it's your whole life.
There's been almost no difference in stares and flirtations
from the ages of thirteen to nineteen.
But I remember the artist
who got drunk every show.
The kind of drunk everyone wishes they were
but hardly anyone is.
Jovial and breezy.
Kind eyed with a laugh that hugs.
He knew colors better than
whatever god that gets to paint sunsets.
Better than the human anatomy
that perfectly constructs a rich universe
in a pair of mocha colored eyes.
I remember the smell of spilled beer
and the sound of steps on cement.
The art that envelopes your heart
and the people who don’t.
I remember all of these things.
These things that slowly broke me
into a girl gone wrong.
Who only sleeps after she's pulled teeth
and said her prayers to Hollywood.
Biography
|
Juliet Lauren in an emerging writer and published poet. Her work can be found in Gold Wake Live, SkyIsland Journal, Ghost City Review, High Shelf Press, and Anti Heroin Chic. When she isn't writing, she frequents open mic nights, concerts, and libraries and tries to find inspiration in boys that are bad decisions and too many shots of espresso. She currently resides in Florida on the wrong side of the tracks and you can follow her general antics on Instagram @jadore.mon.amour and view her reading poems a bit too licentious for Youtube under her name Juliet Lauren.
|
