Halcyon and Hell: Prose Poetry

Before we were trapped, we had nursery rhymes in our smiles and technicolor cartoons in our eyes. Marigold cheeks engraved with red constellations carved by English teachers and moon craters for dimples. Before we binge ate cynicism cookies, there were slices of sunbeams for breakfast and playdoh dreams in our hearts.

We are the generation of postcards before the internet, sending stamps of hope to the government. Before these invisible cages, our existence was childbirth of art, a sunflower muse to Roald Dahl.

But now, we are knights caught in 3×3 chess boxes, daydreaming about pinwheels of freedom made out of arcade teddy bears and toy horses. Bidding adieu to the days where we meant everything we said because we thought everyone did too. We learned to weave a spider web of lies like the novels of Nancy Drew. Our parents were lighting candles while the world was burning, our parents were sleeping while we stayed awake to grow.

My friend texted me, “How did you grow up too soon? ” I laughed and gifted her poetry of shoulders carrying the burden of Jupiter moons. They molded their clay from trauma to toxicity. Somewhere between days of hands on my ears while hiding in the closet to days of musical nightmares while hiding in the closet, I grew up.

Midas touch was rusted and we suddenly became iron nails. Barter system of loneliness and validation in red hearts came into existence. We learned to spend our identities, the evolution of reformed currency.

We are drowning in content but we are hiraeths for content. Home is nostalgia and LOST signs shine on our earrings like dangling spiders. The moonlight bedtime became a smartphone sunrise while we scrolled through body positivity and self-love accounts. We yearn so much that we made yearning an aesthetic. We have an unsent love letter to ourselves in phone Notes.

We became renegades, we were charged with vandalism for spray painting our hearts with protest poetry because they don’t see. They don’t see that the world is burning. The world is burning and we are trapped. They don’t see.

I no longer know where my politics ends and where my love begins because my identity is a bleached crime scene. I am tired of growing, I am tired of cages, I am so tired. But I made a three-fourth promise to my lover to live for saving the world so art can exist, so she can exist. You see, her existence will always be childbirth of art and a sunflower muse for Roald Dahl. Do you see?

//”Halcyon and Hell”// Enigma

Copyright © 2016-2021 Enigma. All rights reserved.

Picture Credits: Enigma (Inktober 2020 Art Day 18 Trap)

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