by Lexys Sillin
the black blanket of night pinks from having her cheeks pinched;
I hold each moment like a magician’s coin in between the grooves of my palm,
unfold my fingers to see a deep impression where something once was—
convince me it wasn’t—
the last bit of yellow drains through the branches on the horizon.
Conceal the salt stains on my cheeks, the dew collected in the grass,
tint everything with indigo, be nothing but blue inside and out;
I linger in the absence of a warm glow, and dream, like night awaits my arrival,
as though I haven’t trouble sleeping already—
my hands still ache with memory—
I wish upon dead stars that I will be steadfast on the skyline.
Mourn by the spotlight that cast no shadow, sidewalks crack like skin,
let nothing escape from the gaze of a scorned sun sinking lower in the sky;
I weep over the vacant tombstones, cradle my own red cheeks,
prop open my heavy eyes to witness the illusion—
disappear my concept of night—
capture that bleeding midnight sun before it reaches the edge of the earth.
In the gaze of coal pupils, the moon and stars dry matte,
the globe stills to prolong this feeling of night;
fall out of orbit,
at the very least—
Lexys Sillin (they/she) is a neurodivergent poet, painter, and student therapist from Iowa City. Read their latest essays at Fool's Magazine and poetry at Backchannels Journal. You can follow Lexys on Instagram @anxiousfeaturesstudio for their paintings and process.