Olivia Dodge
Bio
Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
Stories (110)
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The Good Things
I want so badly to be inspired by the good things. Pain is universal. I must find the balance in obsession and reduction. Good things cannot always be coated in limerence. To reduce one’s emotions only opens the muscle to pain— I wonder how much longer my wound will bring inspiration. There are only so many depictions. A wound, a skeleton, a burning forest. They are given life through the reduction of limerence— an ache in my body to give affection and the ignorance on how to execute it. It is universal to want to love— an obsessive love that eats away at your bones until you are only ashes and your pain has burned with the forest. Depiction of fire. Where is the good in this? I want so badly to be inspired by the obsession, not the reduction. I want so badly to feel my emotions as they come without the robotic placement of pain. Inspiration may pour from my open muscle but I wish someone would hold it for me— apply affection instead of pressure. Depiction of pain. I wish not to depict my emotions in metaphor much longer. Instead to describe them as they are— the good things.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Early October
The bees are aggressive in early October and I wonder if I will ever belong. They say this happens every Fall but I cannot remember the sting. October is colder than usual. Classical music guides the wind south. My bones never felt so heavy since the bees carried their pollen. They were angry for my longing. It is sunny but it does not feel sunny enough. Leaves crack beneath my feet and I flinch for their bones could just as easily be mine. There is a man across the street and the sun cascades on his skin but he does not smile. I wonder if he is writing prose as well. October should be less cloudy. Classical music evaporates into thin air as does the man across the street. The wind comes from the north and the windows are empty. Brick on brick. He will never know of his inspiration however minuscule it may have been. It is 9:36am and I wonder if he is brewing another cup of coffee. Does he feel like he belongs here— I wonder— with the bees and the classical music and the crushed leaves. Perhaps he has learned over the years that it does not matter where one belongs for there are bees everywhere I go. I may never belong in early October.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
