Buried
What was it like, dear?
That night we were both here
Sunset fading
Dim light on the dirt
When you reached down
And you pulled me up from the Earth
I was the last here,
Fading pink among green
I never expected
Someone would take pity
On me
I was wilted
When you found me
But you took me home anyway
Something I can never
Expect to repay
Your hands gentle
Scooping into the dirt
Brown under fingernails
A glow of kindness
On your face
My new home
In front of a window
So I can look out
Towards the dense forest
Where I was once
Withering
Fading
Dying
Here with my window
Here with you
I can grow
I can blossom
I can heal
Knowing you will be here for me
To make sure I never fade
The way I used to
Every day, every week
New family comes through the door
In your hands Sarina Vail
Brown with the dirt
Orange, white, yellow, red
To join me
Looking out onto the world
They come through the door
Looking far brighter
Than I was when I arrived
It makes me feel
Special
Like I was an exception
To some unwritten rule
Do they feel that, too?
Sitting next to me
At our window
Still,
I will not ask
Why you came for me
When I was hopeless
Just know that I think
Of that night
Every night
When the moon shines
In the same way
It did for us
Shaking Hands
Grandmother
Mother of my mother
We call you Nanny
Gentle and kind
Supposed to be
Small apartment up high On the river
Overlooking the city
Plants on the window sills
Begging for fresh air
Pictures of Jesus
On every shelf
Except in the kitchen
Ash trays scattered
On every table and counter
One bed, one bath
No escape, no path
Shaking hands as she cuts carrots
Shaking hands as she fills out a crossword puzzle
Shaking hands as she changes the channel on the TV
Small, pale, boney
Shaking hands
VHS Tapes of Bugs Bunny
Looney tunes
Jacket with Tweety Bird on the back
Too big clothes
Sagging
Dresser full of night gowns
Drawers of knick knacks
Lighters, keychains, cigarette butts
Cluttered and overflowing
Ashes on the floor
Rubbed into the rug
18th floor, second door
Came in one time
Can’t leave anymore
Shaking hands as she opens the kitchen drawer
Shaking hands as she grabs the hardcover book
Shaking hands and little bags
Shaking hands and razor blades
Frail, thin, weak
Shaking hands
Fold out couch
Metal bars
Padded surface
Too many blankets
Bad night’s sleep
TV with the price is right
Old remote
Electronic poker game
Taking notes
Throw the numbers away
Inspectors coming
Knock on the door
Hide in the bathroom
Run the shower
Never come out
Shaking hands in front of the mirror
Shaking hands on greying skin and greying hair
Shaking hands lock the kitchen door
Shaking hands as she brings the straw to her nose
Shaking hands as she leaves
Still hands as she leaves
Motionless hands as she leaves
Cold, sickly, dead
Once shaking hands
Leading Me Down
Rushing down white hallways
Chasing down white hallways
Being led down white hallways
Twisting and turning
With each new turn
Less and less doors
Line the walls
Following him
Through the corridors
Dust collecting
On all the surfaces
Around a bend
And down the stairs
Dirty and scuffed stairs
A plastic divider
Covered in graffiti
Green-Orange-Red
Words and symbols
Across the walls
Following us
Down the stairs
He leads me Under the tape
Into construction
Wooden boards
Drywall
Tools
Scattered around
Plastic wrapped floors
Plastic wrapped doors
Until we come to a doorway
Closed but not locked
Nothing in the way
To actually stop us
No sign that says off limits
But the feeling in the air
Says otherwise
Push the metal bar
That swings open the door
To see a huge room
Old and covered in dust
In the middle sits
An empty pool
Completely drained
Of anything it should have
Grating removed and tossed to the side
Leaving empty holes to cut off pipes
The deep end filled with trash
Debris scattered around the edges
Metal guard rails line
The entire thing
All the way down here
An underground abandoned pool
But yet the room still has windows
Looking out reveals they lead nowhere
Only more walls
More darkness
The sense that something is wrong
Hangs pungent and strong
Lingering through the air of the room
Till I look around
And realize
He’s gone
Q104.3
Car rides late at night
Street lights coming and going
Through the backseat windows
Gameboy battery is almost gone
Flick the power switch off
Look up to see
My father driving
My mother in the passenger’s seat
Q104.3 on the radio
Classic rock
No commercial breaks
It’s 12 am
Might have school in the morning
Can’t think
Music blasting
I can hear them sing
I can pretend I know the words
In my head
But if I said them out loud
I would be seconds too slow
They couldn’t hear me anyway
Even if I tried to talk to them
Even if I wanted to
I know they wouldn’t listen
I can see my father
Reach over
Grab my mother’s thigh
Driving with one hand
I don’t know if we are on the way home
I can’t tell where we are
Nothing but highway lanes
Hardly any other cars out at this hour
The minutes tick on
Becoming closer and closer
To sunrise
As the time on the radio counts up
I can close my eyes
Feel the lights whip across my eyelids
As I lean my head on my arm
Up against the car window
The gentle rumble
Of driving on paved roads
Lulls me to sleep
In the backseat
Somehow the music doesn’t wake me
As they continue to play
Full volume
Classic rock, Q104.3
Exit the highway
Onto city streets
Fast turns and
Ran red lights
Eyes off the road
Maybe for not even more
Than a couple seconds
But that is enough
It’s nearly 2 am
Barely any other cars on the road
Except for us
Us and a Blue Toyota
I don’t have time
To jolt awake
Before I fly forward
We fly forward
I fly backwards
We fly backwards
The radio stops
We stop
The world goes black
Old Laundry
Do you know that feeling?
The one where
The sun is bright
On a day you weren’t expecting it
Where sitting outside
And feeling the breeze
Feel as good as you always wanted it to
Without it being too cold
Talking on the phone
At a train station
With someone you very rarely call
Unless you absolutely have to
Just to talk about your day
Because this time unlike the others
You actually have something to say
Making plans
For this month
And the next
Your birthday
Eight months ahead
The next year entirely
It’s a strange feeling
Like resolving a problem
After lingering near it
For weeks on end
Like walking out into a clearing
And seeing the space around you
For the very first time
Doing away with old laundry
Instead of cleaning it up
Because it doesn’t fit anymore anyway
And trying to squeeze it on
Just became less and less worth it
Over the years
Getting off the phone early
Becomes harder
When you actually have
Things left to say
Hearing a promise callback
Is different
But not unwelcome
When the train is coming
Any minute anyway
Bio:
Hi, I'm Sarina Vail! I make games, I draw art, I write things, and I am always tired. A game design major that dabbles in just about everything else because, well, why not? I write short fiction, usually YA style stories about queer teens and their troubled yet romantic lives. I write poetry, usually about all the absolute bullshit that life has handed me, ya know, childhood hardships and all that. And lastly ... I just draw whatever I feel like.
Here's some fun facts about me:
My first pet was a mouse! His name was speedy, and he was black and white speckled.
I strike fear into the hearts of my enemies.
I love board games, they are one of my favorite hobbies. I consider myself to be pretty good at deck builders, a recent favorite being Mystic Vale.
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