Lara Torea
Lara Torea is always in love with something. She is a high school student and aspiring writer whose words have previously appeared in INKSOUNDS, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Worm Moon, among others. Otherwise, she tweets @melarancholic.
A kinder sea
A couple of opal irides manifest each time the thought of
asking is mislaid into my mind. They do their devilish
terpsichore dancing around the rifts of my corked brain,
tomorrow whispers, the diaspora of bauhinia petals becomes
my own flesh and blood. You see, my mother would call this
an epiphany: a rinse of lineage, pores for-the-first-time-ever
unencumbered, scorched honeysuckle painting over porcelain
moons and out of my tiresome system. You are the face of exodus
back home, they’ll say, and I will answer in the same forbearing
voice, the anatomy of resounding inure, Don’t you guys miss me
too much! Which is to say, my mind is no longer as prevalent in
its ability to comfortably shrink itself to that skyline any
more. When you are a child you grasp onto the scarcity of the kind
of love you are lucky enough to be fed, a fat zenith of zero with a
propensity for transcendence. Newness, paradox, the searing
blow of obfuscation, refusal for flourishing. Sure, it will all be for
nothing, the opening of veins over tear-stained journals, taciturn
walks, one-time drunken penetration of principles, but right now
there are boughs and boughs carved onto the pages and the some
body in charge of their nurture is myself. Not an open testimony, or a
lexicon, or some etymology of drowned sounds, this is much less
anything else than it is a manifestation of quintessential proclivity, a
fervor, the way nimiety becomes obscene as it rejoices in its own
whims, overflowing out of pockets and drawers and holiday houses
and even our hometown and its population of nine-thousand. Or rather
– this is how I say I love you, eight-hour difference waning its hand-me-down
wounds, curtains drawn, this myriad of sinewed pride hanging and hanging
from my lips.