Poetry by Olivia Meyer

Silvia Sala


Fighting

“You taste like fermented blackberries.”
Words wet and hot on my ears.
Tears spill down my face
leaving my cheeks sticky with salt water residue.
“i love you.”
These words fall out of my mouth.
Words that usually feel sweet warm like melting honey
Feel like cotton balls soaked in rubbing alcohol
as they wash down my tongue.
When i look in your icicle eyes they are not looking at me.
i feel like
i can’t really
see you.
Like suddenly there’s glass tinted in all the things we cannot say between us.
i punch and kick the glass until my knuckles and ankles bleed.
i try to scream through the glass but you can’t hear me.
So instead i just mouth the words “please, please, please”
begging you to understand.
You don’t say anything. When i reach out to touch you,
to feel the warmth of your skin, my hands slam hard against the cruel glass again and again.
i can’t touch you.
i can’t touch you.
i can’t touch you.
i can’t keep reaching and screaming
Can’t stare at the ominous tint of the glass, it hurts to look at you.
i can’t look at you.
i can’t look at you.
i can’t look at you.
Then all my bones break.
And i sob
and sob.
And then
you’re back.
You’re holding me and my tears are on your cheeks and the glass has melted away like plastic in the sun.
Sometimes i will remember the glass.
It will linger in the back of my memory for several days
and i will fear it’s return.
But whenever i am afraid i hold myself and remember that you always come back.
You always come back.
You always come back.
Whenever i am afraid i will hold myself and remember
That the glass is a window
not a wall.





Soft and Strong

Girls are soft and strong.
Lovely in their anger.
Exquisite in their rage.
Girls burning red like molten lava
Kissing hot orange like flames.
Citrus on burning lips.
Girls pulling brushes through vines of hair
Tugging out imperfections.
Their nails smooth and beautiful
Cutting across any skin that oppresses,
that lays too hard on their bones,
pushing them down.
They claw at the men who won’t let them breathe.
They take long sips of paint, soda, spitting out acrylic onto canvas, puke out
art and pink foaming intimacy.
Rose petals on their fingertips,
Thorns on their palms.
Soft and strong.
Girls weaving ribbons of influence.
Touching each aspect of culture
with a delicate and powerful proclamation
to leave nothing without a hint of something deeply artistic, to pour beauty and strength into each
organ of society.
Girls who breathe life, who pump blood into hollow, wanting cheeks.
Girls who are soft
and strong.





We are On a Bus

We are on a bus.
We feel the tires hit pavement rhythmically underneath us as we hum through the city
Thump thump whoosh
Part of the ticking of the streets.
Part of the ordered chaos.
You rest your head on my shoulder and your paper eyelids flicker shut.
I squeeze your chilly hands softly in mine. I close my eyes.
Thump thump whoosh.
Memory One:
I am on a bus and I am 10 years old.
My little sister throws her head back and laughs too loudly
at something I’ve said that isn’t that funny.
So do I.
We clap and sing and shout with the reckless abandon of those who have nothing to hide,
children with light pink faces and minds.
Our father sleeps undisturbed across the aisle
Maybe he is dreaming of driving a car..
The other passengers stare at my sister and me, some
with cold grey eyes, angry and solid.
Others look on with melting molasses expressions
They remember what it is to be very young
And very loud
And very happy.
And then they look away.
Thump thump whoosh.
Memory Two:
I am on a bus and I am alone.
I feel nothing, my wet concrete heart works hard to beat, one two three, breath
Don’t cry. I am numb.
My dry eyes don’t focus on the gray blurry faces around me, I do not see them, I do not care.
I am thinking about the other times I’ve left this place on a bus.
I am remembering the way my heart used to tap fast as I could still feel his lips buzzing on mine, frantic, lusty bumblebees.
I try to forget.
Thump thump whoosh.
Memory Three:
I am on a bus and I backpack is hurting my shoulders.
I am anxious and too hot and my limbs are heavy but I don’t know where to put my jacket, I am
congested. Skin feels itchy around my bones, wrapped tight and suffocating like your least favorite
sweater.
I am on my way to make sure she is okay. I am going to see her because one day of her missing
class has made visions of blood-stained bathroom floors and limp bodies whirl around my
crowded brain.
I will save her, hold her, show her I care.
I get off my bus and walk a few blocks to her house, angry blisters rubbing against my boots, I
didn’t plan to walk a lot today.
I tell her I am here.
She hates surprises. She tells me to go home.
I cry at the park by her house for 15 minutes before boarding a bus back home and riding away
from my messy failure.
I feel so pathetic.
Thump thump whoosh.
Memory Four:
I am on a bus, I am by myself but I am not alone. I grip the sweaty metal bar above me, squeezing
my intrusive fingers uncomfortably in between those of the passengers around me. We sway with
the flow of one another, with the street below and the walls around, push, pull, push, pull, stop, go.
Girl pulls bus, bus pulls girl.
I feel separate but connected, I am very alive.
I am learning what it is to be an individual, on a bus, part of the rest.
Thump thump whoosh.
You are on a bus.
The people around you are strangers but you recognize small parts of them.
You recognize the violet shadows painted thick under their dark eyes.
You recognize the subtle movements of their restless hands, holding bags and phones, running
palms over pant legs, clicking nails on window sills, the motions of those in a place of transition.
Moving from one stop to the next.
Their flushed cheeks, lungs pushing chests, breath going in and out, in and out.
As you move through the streets you are part of them, they are part of you.
We are on a bus.
Thump thump whoosh.





The Boogie Man

The boogie man living in my stomach makes my mouth taste like gasoline.
I vomit strawberries when he pushes them out of my raw throat.
He makes me miss you
He makes me lie.
This is his fault.





Fast Feeling

i eat conversations
my guts growl for connection
sodium saturated small talk
it doesn’t really fill you up
but it tastes good as you shove it into your open, weeping mouth
licking the sugar of his words off your shaking, starving fingers
i’m so hungry

Bio: Olivia Meyer is 17 years old and a junior in high school. She lives in Seattle, Washington and has been published in her school’s newspaper. Writing is her favorite way to express herself and she's been doing it for as long as she can remember. Olivia thinks that poetry is a beautiful part of life and she loves both making and reading it.

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