Tea for Two Clara Steege

Emily Zou

We’re on the tenth-story balcony of a five-star hotel. You’re draped in a silky nightgown. It flows past your ankles, almost cupping one of your heels. There’s nothing separating you from the City of Angels except pillars that barely reach beyond your waist. You lean deeply into the palm of your right hand, facing the soft sunset which illuminates wet charcoal-black hair, and the elbow of the same arm is hanging loosely off the façade of the building. The other is patiently at the side of your hips, swaying with each stroke of wind. “Call me when you’re ready… to be real.” Words cascade out of your scarlet red lips. They’re in low, husky tones and they’re seductive, dangerous. Cold like you. You leave, and I catch sight of a cigarette pressed between two fingers that resemble claws. They’re wrapped around the petite cylinder the same way a ravenous wolf ensnares an unsuspecting rabbit, the same way you suffocate my creativity and individuality. I meander around the balcony for hours, dazed out of my mind. If I were responsible, I wouldn’t chase after you and instead, I’d settle down. Maybe I’d have a wife and kids, and a job that doesn’t work me to death. Yet, I pack my bags, following you on the remnants of your long-forgotten path. I know I’ll trip and fall too many times and the reward won’t always be worth it. But I will always run back to you because I’m in love with you. And that’s true even when I’m passed out in the backroom past midnight and I have sleeping pills in my right hand. Even when the paparazzi documents my every move and I’m ridiculed by the public for yelling at a photographer who won’t mind her business. Even when I’m burnt out writing songs and I have nothing to offer to the world anymore. That’s because you are my Black Madonna, my forbidden mistress, my darkest flower. An unquenchable thirst for fame.

RED APPLE

nothing is wrong ava bruni

A feeling boils up into your throat and you cant explain where it came from or what it is and your stomach hurts and the room is spinning and you forget how to breathe and you want it to go away and you need it to go away but it doesnt want to its a parasite that feeds on your bad emotions and terrible intrusive thoughts and everything you hate and you just want the room to stop spinning so you try to find a little spot on the wall thats not moving but you cant and you wonder if its really the room or if your brain is spinning around a million times trying to hurt you and your eyes burn with tears that arent there and you cant cry because its not working and nothing is working so you try to find out whats wrong with you but you have no reason to be sad and no reason to be stressed so that’s not it and you ignore your shaking hands and try to think of something else but theres nothing except the spinning walls and something boiling in your throat and you think youre dying because why else would air be having so much trouble getting into your lungs but you want to live and you know crying will get you there but you still cant and you need to feel better but nothingisworkinganditfeelslikeitmightneverworkagain.