Problems of Reality

Anonymous

In my ideal reality, I am a writer And a thinker.

Sometimes I think about problems And try to conjure solutions, But sometimes, the problems Begin to fester, And force me to dwell on their benefits.

Dreams

Josephine DeMarco

In my dreams I’m all kinds of things. A sorcerer or a shapeshifter A person who travels to the end of time. In my dreams I’ve lived in glass castles And rescued a fallen star.

In my dreams I am trapped

Lost in an ever-changing maze, Unable to do anything but watch As the world grows old without me.

In my dreams I’ve flown around the world And floated in oceans reflecting the sky. I’ve danced on the beach in flowing gowns And met spirits twice my size

I run in my dreams

But the world moves so slowly. What am I trying to get to? To get away from? Will I ever be able to know?

To Be or Not To Be Anonymous

To be, or not to be, that is the question: To accept this knowledge buried within, Or to shove it aside for others’ comfort, Knowing I’m not quite me.

There’s a sense of safety in my role as a doll–Better to be a monster’s plaything than become its next meal. But somewhere along the line that argument lost its appeal. I’ve stared at countless mirrors; I know what gazes back. A figure of flesh and blood and bones and skin, A form I’ve shaped and toned and beat and bludgeoned In some pathetic attempt at self. But never quite myself.

A walking contradiction, formed by half-truths and backhanded compliments. Unapologetically me in every way except the main.

I bought a new turtleneck. The colors matched the ones within The yellows and purples and whites and blacks

That I’ve never been brave enough to show. Maybe some shades, I thought, are better to cover up and hide, Too saturated to let free, too shocking, too much. I feel them sometimes, desperate to come out, Radiating off me so strongly it’s a wonder only two people know. Every other color throughout my life I’ve worn proudly

What’s stopping me from doing the same now?

I’ve been hiding these shades for too long, Only freeing them when no one could see. But in the end, I think I’d rather be loathed for who I am than loved for what I’m not.