Attention, CICADA community!
- It’s time to say goodbye—the community at cicadamag.com is now closed. Learn more...
2 pointstoday is brought to you by the physical act of remembering. & remembering is a swandive from a cliff: you choose when to jump, or youre shoved, or the ground decides it's time & crumbles. but freefall is the shortest purgatory a living thing can experience & you might tell yourself this was a mistake, that hurtling into the expansive, apathetic blue of the sea would render you something ended. something breathless & floating. the headfirst weightlessness & regret & solid hope & wishing hard for what was always leaves a hole in your chest when nostalgia bites. then comes the water. the cold crashes into you like a freight train & you are something mournful. something wanting. grieve the past & things that were. honor them. important things will stick. you can make homes like you can make apples: from seed to sapling & maybe in a few years youve earned fruit, or a kind of belonging. a home is never more than a house plus memories. & this home may succumb to worms, or wood rot, or real estate, & you might package up remembering & leave it in your attic, but attics are made to be forgotten & rediscovered. this is its magic. learning how to remember is a little spellbinding thing & the first time you spiral: you loop & spin & widen & suddenly that attic is the most important thing you have ever tasted. remembering is roses, or at least tinted pink. never mind the worms. never mind the rot. this home lives in recollection, & souls, & the attics of new homes. important things will stick.
1 pointi am walking through the carcass of a whale there are great bones around me, massive ribcage— they are towers, or bars, or the walls of a home. is there marrow within them? or poetry? i thought the whale would fade after beaching but it did not— when it did i thought it would wither. perhaps it did, but the carcass remains; i am walking through the carcass of a whale and wondering how long before the wind carves the bones to dust. farewell to the orange sky. farewell to the cicada call in the summer evenings. food is still good past its expiration date and sometimes daylight clings beyond the setting sun but when the midnight comes, will it bring waves to cleanse the beach? when i return come morning, will the whale be gone? i whisper poetry to the inside of a whale carcass and wonder how long i have left. ~~~~~~~ ((AN: there's a weird, half-life atmosphere to the slam now. it's like all the rats abandoned ship but the ship hasn't sunk yet. the slam was supposed to go down but it's still here and it's like walking through purgatory. it's like it's here but it isn't and i'm hurting to see how long it will last.))
1 pointyou leave suddenly like a brick pulling out from beneath me didn't realize how this would feel i followed my life like i follow stories until i snapped back to reality at the very end of it and it's harder when pain hits all at once. i have grown used to you building me up, making me laugh when i couldn't breathe, you made that feeling better texts coming in a couple times a day even if i don't have the time to make my responses do much more than suck, usually didn't know how to fathom the way you would vanish i wobble as my world tilts like a jenga tower with one brick pulled out i did not realize how it would feel to be left reaching for something beyond your emptiness you made me feel tall beautiful, happy, loved and seen. did you intend to do that? should not have called this happiness mine because you gave it to me all of this never could have happened if you hadn't built me up i wish i could have thanked you said something found true, constant words for what you mean before i felt the void of your shape stable and aching unfillable by anything but what is past out the window wish something could take me back to memories that some days i just want to bury myself in rather than face a shaky present before we the part was final barely holding i became highly acquainted with memory i think love is not just noticing when something is there but feeling all the moments when it is gone because you meant something something i stood upon. This is for a lot of people, but part of this is about Cicada closing down. I know I haven't been posting long, but thank you Cicada for giving me a place to post my writing where people I don't even know can see it. I've sort of grown used to how wacky and creative this place is, and normal, physical life is orderly and rule-following and nothing like that. Before now, the only people who read my work was basically my mum. And the occasional interested relative or teacher. I know I'm not that important here, but it still feels good to read through the view numbers on my poems, and feel like someone has read my work. I was afraid to start posting when I signed up in February, but I wish I could have started posting sooner. @bluebird , @The Invincible Troodon, @WanderingMonster, thank you for liking my work (and if there's anyone I'm forgetting, thank you too). All the people who showed up as views and didn't like: thank you for reading it. Even if you didn't like it--even in spirit, rather than in digital reaction, the fact that you took the time to read it means something to me. I don't know if any of you care, but in case you do, I'm going to keep posting on the Cicada 3.0 website after I can't post here any longer (cicadamagarchive.home.blog) by the same username.
1 point. iam hiding leather over soft flesh in sweet origami smiles laughs and neat outfits closet doubtful misfitting artistic scientist scientific artist closet seer of things i know you don’t think are fit for my eyes closet dirty mouth (and too fucking bad) closet confused everything-at-once person trying to find herself logically honestly, i am many other things i just highlighted in blue and backspaced maybe i should be braver than this— closets are where you can close the door and no one will come looking for you inside those doors i am angry and bitter crabapple don’t always believe in hope and prosperity pain maybe you understand that it’s hard to grasp you might like this person this way i’m not good at being detached from people like that. trapped in kindness i give out smiles and noncommittal answers (i’m either an amazing actress or a terrible one) sometimes, when you see me under the normal halfway-light it just feels wrong and i don’t know how to fix that. but something is lost when my parts are segregated one dark and one illuminated it only simmers worse as i linger screaming silently god knows what i want god knows who i am invisible; laughable i explode on the people i trust to hold it inevitably. i think i have to be seen by someone. maybe this poem needs a happier ending explaining personal growth in a creative conformity but— i’m not here or there i’m just on and off, still thinking trying, somewhere. i think i want to be seen by someone as what i really am, before lost in these lines i lose sight of it.