Lydia Bae (17)
Orpheus
The living do not live in this town. Underneath the terrible, circling cries of ravens and magpies, phantom lungs breathe flurried scraps of cartilage and burnt nails. I loved you the way I loved my own heart. I skewered the blackbirds nesting in your star-dusted skull with cyanide gorged daggers. I painted your open throat in bright, mercuried colors to keep the scavengers away. When stars ravaged pewter arcs across the sky, I wrapped a plastic tarp over each narrow bone of your ribcage and mangled my wayward frame as to fit within the hollow. By the morning, a dozen apple seeds had rooted themselves into my scalp. I traced each protrusion, buried their sharpened edges deeper into my skin, darkened purpling bruises to blood. God, I hope this is enough. You tithed an ounce of flesh in payment for my escape. When each step uncovered a flurry of ashes, when I became indistinguishable from the littered corpses, I lacerated cords of my throat, three brief strokes. I sank to the ground. Through each hour of the night, I watched as yesterday’s seeds grew to saplings, roots hooking on earth. Their branches bound my broken throat, enfolded my swollen fingers, grew a net to swallow my mouth. Oh, my love. What we could have had in another life.
Lydia Bae is a high school senior in Bellevue, Washington. She writes primarily poetry. Her writing has previously been recognized in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, The Foredge Review, and The Apprentice Writer.
Orpheus
The living do not live in this town. Underneath the terrible, circling cries of ravens and magpies, phantom lungs breathe flurried scraps of cartilage and burnt nails. I loved you the way I loved my own heart. I skewered the blackbirds nesting in your star-dusted skull with cyanide gorged daggers. I painted your open throat in bright, mercuried colors to keep the scavengers away. When stars ravaged pewter arcs across the sky, I wrapped a plastic tarp over each narrow bone of your ribcage and mangled my wayward frame as to fit within the hollow. By the morning, a dozen apple seeds had rooted themselves into my scalp. I traced each protrusion, buried their sharpened edges deeper into my skin, darkened purpling bruises to blood. God, I hope this is enough. You tithed an ounce of flesh in payment for my escape. When each step uncovered a flurry of ashes, when I became indistinguishable from the littered corpses, I lacerated cords of my throat, three brief strokes. I sank to the ground. Through each hour of the night, I watched as yesterday’s seeds grew to saplings, roots hooking on earth. Their branches bound my broken throat, enfolded my swollen fingers, grew a net to swallow my mouth. Oh, my love. What we could have had in another life.
Lydia Bae is a high school senior in Bellevue, Washington. She writes primarily poetry. Her writing has previously been recognized in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, The Foredge Review, and The Apprentice Writer.
