Literary Orphans

“Youth” by Phoebe Robertson

Ill-hearted.

 

He’s made of

light that spills sickly sweet.

 

She can’t sliver away,

as he skins her whole.

 

There is nothing left of

the past

which

was once

two sides of the same coin.

 

They crumble coldly against each other

in a broken embrace.

 

Lying together,

they seep

like the worst kind of bruises.

 

She’s photographing magic.

He’s biting her lip.

 

They

. . . . . . . Climb

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Underneath

each others flesh.

 

She’s the worst kind of him.

He spits on her skin,

indifferently satisfied.

 

He believes in smudged mascara

as the ship of romance drowns.

 

She bathes in his liquid.

 

Flies flock to the dying romance

like sailors to a lighthouse.

 

The love was in their eyes

but

now it slips between couch cushions

with

the

lost

ten-cent pieces.

 

O Typekey Divider

 

Darling, this just isn’t our time.

 

Distance makes

the heart too kind.

 

You.. looked like… my reality.

 

I’ll call you a final time

sarcastically.

 

Moments are porcelain things

with

fingertips reaching for

the couplet

of eternity.

 

The moon whispers secrets

as I venture through country roads

full of skellingtons buried in corn mazes,

fields of wildflowers are dug especially to rot.

 

I have a goldfish temperament

and you look out to life

like it’s the view from the wrong side of a police car.

 

My plane crashes

like an unanswered concept

I spend

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . time

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . descending

reminiscing on your silhouette.

 

You bring me life like a used car commercial.

Your smile brings damp things to the grave …

Blending ancient creatures to fiction.

 

Times like this,

I imagine cicadas covering

every inch of my body

as memories suffocate me with wet dirt,

choking my love.

 

O Typekey Divider

 

Closet.

 

My closet

is full

of secrets.

 

Of items

hid in

coat pockets.

 

Monsters blending

with worn

faded fabrics.

 

Scuffed boots

scattered haphazardly

collecting dust.

 

Old memories

lost in

the darkness.

 

Photographs tucked

away in

shoe boxes.

 

A time

capsule to

old life.

 

This poem

Wasn’t supposed

To be literal.

 

O Typekey Divider

Phoebe Robertson is an aspiring poet studying in Wellington, New Zealand. Her work has previously appeared in Poetry NZ Yearbook, Flash Frontier and Young NZ Writers. She spends her time loitering at Ivy and seeing weird Theatre.

O Typekey Divider

–Art by Mick McClelland