Olivia Dodge
Bio
Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
Stories (109)
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After: New Sublet, Runner
Purple is blossoming across the street and my hands ache to be held in yours. I find it difficult to see the amusement in my skin complementing your favorite flower. Soon enough veins will burst and we will be left drowning— vacillation amongst our will to live. The sky has been grey for ages now. My eyes, my mother’s hair, my favorite shirt, all reflected in fog. How thrilling it must be to have your twisted roots torn each season and placed in safety. Two weeks have passed and purple bloss- oms into red, yellow, fire, danger— contrasted against rain and the death of my umbrella. I think of Vladimir Nabokov: It’s cold today, but in a spring way, and I love you. How the sea- sons make me feel. The first uproot takes place in fall. October ties my ankles and drags me through mud. The second uproot is the hottest of seasons. And the third. And the fourth. Each time I am drenched in irritation. Here the sky is blue, diamond, ocean, sapphire. Streets fill with scuffle and my boxes rip more than not. It is a strange affliction— getting addicted to starting all over again. My hands ache still.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Combining Blackouts
I’ve spoken of your hands pulling me beneath tides and clouds in every season for my palms are ready to burst. I wonder if the sun would watch the second my spine is ashes. October happens every fall but never felt so angry. My anger poured into a person. Feeling is the closest thing to home. It is not sunny enough. My vices did not turn to minutes. I hope life in the eruption did not burn with your fingertips and my bones— they would exist for me. My feet flinch on his skin. Nothing could feel the same. I let a page flip to my fingers. This page was in my dreams— my mind’s realm. He should evaporate from the north. At 30,000 feet my anger felt distant. I beg of you and the seasons which drowned me. Sitting next to me I felt longing. Pieces spewing upon my palms for I should matter. Wrapped in warmth— the moment is enough. He will know his inspiration may have been brewing like bees and crushed leaves over the years— never in October.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Learning To Use My Words
I fell through the ice at nine years old and I’ve lived with bruised toes since. I’ve learned to walk on my heels until the skin slides off with the meat on your brittle bones. I guess winter is comforting because I relive tragedies in my feet and not behind my eyes. I’ve known the world can never be snow white but I cannot explain the bright glare of clouds consuming my small glass plane. I should name myself a victim with an icy layer in my throat. It has been there for most of my life and I suppose it will never leave. Attempting to speak with warmth melts the white in my throat and comes out only as tears. I have tried to burn myself. I have tried to burn you too. We have sparked knives and metal and I have melted the first layer but I fear that’s all I can do. Will you stay long enough to see ocean levels rise? Will you stay long enough to watch my bruises die and resurrect with the seasons? I cannot promise much but I will hold your muscle in place so it does not fall with me.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Rollerskating and Defeat
April Prompts by @aev.poetry — I skate across the face of the earth / maybe this is where I admit defeat Remember how I said I wanted to rollerskate? I know it’s silly to chase after this thing in my childhood that never once really brought me joy. I guess I just hoped it would be different now that my legs work again. They tell us the fires will erupt tonight. My shoes are covered in mud again. I know I should pay more mind to the ground beneath my feet but the city is burning and I cannot bear to look away. Perhaps in another life I pull my skates from my bag and I skate across the face of the earth. They are flameproof here. Wheels turning and windows shattering and my legs are giving out again. Flameproof is not mudproof. Maybe this is where I admit defeat. Gliding across oceans with broken limbs and orange in my once blue eyes. We were never meant to survive this. Rollerskating was never in the cards for me. I’m not sure why I ever tried. Metaphors have not burrowed in my gums for some time and I fear the bones in my legs will slip from my throat. It is all about fear isn’t it? Permanent stains and melting beams and I just realized this version of me is not human. She is everything I am not. There’s your answer.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Reflections of Past Pleading
I reflect upon my words from past lives and I can feel the desperation— the sickening beg of a child and the grimace of men with ample bread. I suppose I was once the child smeared with dirt and find him now loathsome as he reminds the man I am of earth’s cruelty. I’m told my pleading is a means to understand emotion but I cannot grasp the possibility that all this time I have been begging not for bread but for jam. I have held biscuits beneath my coat for ages and watched them crumble each week as men pass without glance. I should confide in this child and ask him the source of the paintbrush strokes upon his skin. I do not wish to beg much longer. Reflections have often found sanctuary in my pockets— painted blue clouds beneath the thunderheads. He tells me he is searching through clouds of despair while women send their pity through silence. How I wish to hold his polluted hands. My polluted heart. I sit patiently on this invisible balcony with knives in my chest. Reflection could be therapeutic I suppose. If nothing more I should inspect the soles of my child’s shoes for I have known myself to crush memories beneath my feet. How I wish to capture this boy’s misery from his eyes and house it for years to come. Our wounds fester and heal from afar— this has always been and will always be our reflection.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Lessons From My Father
prompt “my father taught me…” by @spokensincerely I’m not sure if you recall the conversations with my childhood ghost. I’d spoken of his melancholia and incessant need for comfort. My father taught me comfort is best stored beneath the skin. Hidden away in the glovebox with tags from 2013. Only when my ghost passed on did he tell me— show me— comfort should be given in the open. On the balcony above swarms of bees and in the front yard of every home we eventually left. There is a disdain that festers in my veins at the thought of his emotional insecurity. I am not my father. I am not the colic ghost (anymore). It is foolish to wish for change in a time that has succumbed to strict division. My father taught me many things. How not to express anger. How not to speak with those you love. How not to love. I’m not sure if he recalls the conversations with my childhood ghost. Why are you crying? You don’t need to do that. It is best to keep these things hidden. I’m sure he does not realize this idea has taken months— years— to reverse the etching in my internal cement. I’m sure I could never hand him the carvings in my skin and receive the comfort for which my ghost still pleads. I’m sure disdain has found permanent residence in my shriveled lungs.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Metaphors For My Love
my love for you is the lonesome feather a child grasps to show his mother in awe / an array of hand-painted portraits scattered above our bodies laid to rest / burnt glass that I cannot bear to throw down the chute / droplets of rain finding warmth upon my brow / trite plastic bouquets hung by a single nail / teeth indenting skin and purple to yellow left behind / a knife within my chest that I cannot pull for fear of agonizing pain / closets half-empty / the burning behind my eyelids when I forget to blink / a single window lit by a candle nearing its death / hours of melody curated by mutual fingers / plucking the last feather on my back to present to you in awe
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
