Swan Song

Another second passes.  I blink; Time rolls forward, and I am Sisyphus.


I’ve been told Envy is a sin.  Mainly by Televangelists, and my family, who might as well be Televangelists.  But I was born with green eyes, and ugly ducklings have shadows, just as all the other swans who manage to stay afloat without ruffling their plumage in the friction of undisclosed expressionism, dysmorphic, no sense of a dysphoria scrunching lids shut while tearing out precious eyelashes—wasted wishes—in pre-Mayan rituals of self-sacrifice; soldered comfortably to despair.


Time is a face on the water.


Ripples are in the eye of the beholder;


Or it would be, if opening my eyes wasn’t such a frightening concept.  If whites hadn’t rolled forward in their sockets I would be seeing the world in technicolor, the crusted blood to have been picked from my soul-window frames, pried open, like so many scabs: Not hyper-focused on daylight’s waning interest in what is left between my ears—memories roll and clack against bone, children’s glass marbles refracting midday’s sharpened shards thrown from rays by arrows birthed of Zeus, stolen by Apollo in fits of shell-cracking rage.


I wonder—dreaming, as multitasking is hinderingly difficult—If Apollo, as well, wears dull green to ornament his pale and plain face.


Words fall carelessly from mouths, tongues flicking off syllables like a serpent, lips chapped from overuse; nobody knows how to smile—”They’re just jealous,” but faces are like blank paper.  With a pen as my only weapon—Inkslinger, Wordsmith (is ‘Artist’ such an insult?)—I defile translucent themes in skin, scribble out eyes:


“Don’t look at me!”

–Jenna-Nicole Conrad

Jenna-Nichole is a autodidact, freelance writer, intersectional feminist, poet, activist, and bibliophile experiencing life in and around Massachusetts. They may or may not bleed Ink. You can contact them at SharpSoulPoetics@gmail.com

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