Author: Molly Brubaker

I used to be afraid of the monsters under my bed.

I am not anymore.

I slip into my headphones and my words and the monsters can’t reach me here, in this safe secure cocoon of me.

No one else.

And if that isn’t safe, what is?

The air is full of crisp fresh sharp tonight.

Icy wet grass under my bare feet makes goose bumps rumble up my arms,

And I breathe the stars.

There’s something about her

Something that makes us feel alive.

Maybe it’s because she looks at people

And sees what’s alive in them, too.

Today I think I will snuggle up and write

Maybe read a book or two

Bake some warm chocolate-chips-melted cookies

Wait—

Night has already fallen.

I would explain how my soul feels right now

But the rest of this page

Says all it needs to say.

Empty Page Mind

M.B.

October 19, 2021

Why do I read and write, they ask?

Why do I breathe stories like I’ve held my breath for centuries?

There are too many lives unlived, feelings unfelt, words unwritten—

I think I must help out a little.

Because really, in the end, who are we to decide this life is good enough alone?

You question my loyalty to pencils as if it’s misplaced.

You ask why I prefer scratched gray over inky black.

I smile.

Pencils are wispy flow handwriting and emotions flooding cozy unlined journals, gray scribbled notes and snuggle blanket dreams.

And there is a perilous sort of impermanence that comes with a thought that can be erased,

As if it’s not quite your own anymore; the world can do what it wants with it.

A skyscraper rises above the rest in the sparkling glass city that devoured the wild.

We circle the warm air draft on our eagle wings, lifting to the roof to touch down our worn, Sharpie-heart Converse.

Green is everywhere. Wild has devoured the roof. We breathe crisp fresh sharp.

Thick vines snuggle up around tired old gray heaters, the electrical box houses lavender swishing in the breeze, a field of clover cushions our bare feet as we kick off shoes.  

I pick a sunflower flourishing in a crack in the concrete and breathe its acceptance of life’s trials.

You tuck lilies in your hair and braid daisies into mine.

Isn’t this the real wild, thriving in the noise of modern society?

Isn’t that where we breathe deepest, a pocket of oxygen in an ocean rising to drown all that forget they can swim?

Tilted crowns,

Slouching on thrones.

Royal cloaks billowing behind us as we run through halls,

Fleeing responsibility with a free-heart giggle.

We can rule the world, darling, I promise.

But can’t we have a little fun doing it?