Two by Safia Chilakapti

 

Heroine Addict 

 

 

I met you in the spring, gathering brisk air between my fingers like thread tied in thick

knots. I always came back to this, to the softness of the lake and the water lapping at the sides of

the dock. The moment, the habit, it smelled like damp sunlight and old book pages.

I can’t remember what I was doing before you spilled through the edges of my vision.

You had silk shimmering over you like it was melted onto your skin and eyes that didn’t quite

see me. It was always this way, and I can’t remember when I started coming back here just for

you. For this.

You must’ve been spinning the light coming off of your skin because it ebbed and flowed

with the lake behind us. The waves leapt from the surface and slipped across the dock, hitting the

wood in heavy droplets. I couldn’t tell if a storm was brewing, or if it was you.

Your eyes still looked vacant, a deep sea green, reflecting your body as it collided with

mine and sent me crashing backwards. Again. Different story, same ending. That sea green

finally filled with life as I fell–some kind of recognition–and I knew I’d let you do this to me

over and over and over. Let me help you, you said at last, the words so familiar they echoed

through my head as if there was nothing truly up there. Nothing but you. And perhaps I am the

devil herself, or maybe just her mouthpiece, for I lacked hesitation or reserve when I said always.

 

 

Carry 

 

I carry a hello

                       for every second chance,

            a book

                       called Find Her, Keep Her.

I carry cultures 

                       splitting me down the middle,

           a name

                       to protect and 

           a name

                       to grow into.

I carry silence

                       instead of sound,

            a legacy 

                       on my shoulders.

I carry pencils

                      but never any paper

           a bullet

                      journal full of poetry. 

I carry a rose

                     colored shard of glass,

            my mistakes

                      in Altoid tins

a sister 

                      in my battle scars.

I carry over 

                      flowing arteries

blood 

                      oaths from ages ago.

I carry water

                      logged lungs,

justification 

                      for everyone else

I carry a goodbye

                      for every new smile and

I carry—

 

 

Safia Chilakapati is currently a sophomore at HSPVA. She loves reading, drinking a dangerous amount of black coffee, and writing poetry at ungodly hours of the night.