Walls

I

mistake the walls for horizons
and the summer for hell—prisoner
of someone else's war.
I live in a tower
with a man unbearably ashen
and a woman unbearably strained,
and wave away the sunset's scarlet
while the rooms shiver off
each day's ache.

She

is a wall of eyes
and a raging battle—
that loves surrender like a feather bed,
that loves her offspring like an iron cage.
I could not lie to her for there are already
a hundred curses
tangling her up, screaming deceit
with telephone rings and quiet
hallway steps.

You

are resistant and frank,
of malleable morals. Your love is a whirlwind
that passes by my door to drop
a secret you created with your hands.
But plaster gifts are prone to break
like eggshells against these walls
(as if I need more eggshells to tread on)
and you depart in a fury at how hopeless I am—
friend, do you know
how your gift makes my hands emptier? But

this

is a season, turning inevitably:
from the parched grey of summer,
to the autumn red of blade to skin,
to the vacant white of walls. Years later,

I stare straight into sunsets;
you study to be a healer;
her millions of eyes are growing dim;
and this parting winter is bellowing its final blizzard—
one dying breath to topple every wall.

.:.

I'm cleaning house these days, spending the humid afternoons sifting through hundreds of pages and knick knacks and memories, filling up trash can after trash can (because I am not who I was?). But yesterday, I found an old online chat transcript from a dark time in my life and realized that I hadn't even scratched the surface... there's so much of my past that I've blocked out. 322 lines. A well-meaning friend, a mess of personal circumstances, and me, caught in the middle—it brought me face-to-face with a part of my story that I'd taught myself to forget, and I didn't know how to respond, so I wrote the above, faster and more effortlessly than I can ever remember having written a poem before.

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I'm Oksana—Communication major, shutterbug, occasional blogger, incessant doodler, graphic design geek, and writer of sentimental prose. I am quite content to spend an afternoon with a pencil, a few blank Moleskine pages, and a playlist of indie folk. I love musical theatre, black-&-white movies, and Eastern European illustration. Conversations with strangers make my day. When it rains, I make a beeline for my mug of green tea and stack of 19th-century fiction. I'm vegetarian about 98% of the time. I'm extremely awkward and rather nerdy. I love the sea. My name means 'hosanna' and I'm having the time of my life living to praise the One who set me free.

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