To My Neighbor Inpatient

Natasha Bredle, USA

There are times you return, in my mind. Like a flutter
of a ghost when I come across something beautiful.

Ginkgo leaves adorning the sidewalk, drifting
wildflowers, cracked blue eggshells below a bird’s nest.

I see your face, your arched cheeks, your collarbones,
freckles painted white, lips tinted purple,

and I wonder where you are now. Many years have passed
since my departure. I have found delicacies that suit me

but developed a preference for strength. My colors
have resurfaced, and some nights as I lie in bed

I lift up my hands to stare at their effulgence. I wonder
if you have abandoned the mirror that bound us together,

as I have. Or have you yet to realize that the white-washed walls
of our prison are not home? Yes, our prison.

It is still present in my world, waiting. But I have constructed
an abyss to separate me from it. Every time I look down

I remember my enslavement to falling, and a bitter aftertaste
floods my mouth. But then I remember how I traded it

for its reciprocal and became a sparrow—no a starling,
and rose buds blossom on my tongue.

Neighbor, what have you become? When cold wind whips
at my flesh, I hear your hands pounding against a thick sheen of glass.

I dream I wake up next to your gray body and present
a bouquet of flowers to lay on your chest.

The Art of Glowing

Natasha Bredle, USA

hear this:

petroleum fluid on your tongue.

it makes no sound.

this was your largest misconception,

thinking you had to imbue yourself with fire to glow.

but fluorescence is a seed, it merely

simmers, creeps, stirs, dims

beneath the umbrella term of blooming.

hear this:

the blood on your palms cries out.

soon enough your hero platelets

will grind the rivers into scabs

so hush, listen closely.

the purr of damage, remember. pain is a vapor

that takes many forms. close your eyes

until you see the crimson stains glow.

no badge, no blemish, no bluff

it is a part of you, nothing more.

hear this:

there is a calling.

what if you had no name? what if you embodied

every summer stream, mood ring mantra

and neon throne that crossed your path?

there is nothing nearer to a miracle

than the mortal who is infinite.

come, so many hands reaching

grasp them, kiss them until your lips

become love letters to the world. hush

hush, go

Home is Love & I’ll Take You With Me When I Go

Natasha Bredle, USA

i have given everything

to feel this dust wash over me. remember the time

we plunged our hands into the tank and watched the broom-sweep shrimp

swarm to our fingers? they clung to our cuticles and you laughed

as their chelas, minute claws, chipped the dirt from our nails.

but now i seek the mud. i have been exposed to beauty for so long

and understand when you ask, isn’t this enough? no.

when the heart feels something, anything for too long, it aches with longing

so i gather up its strings and chords and set off on foot, yet you

still grasp for me. i tug away and accidentally tear off a piece of you.

accidentally, but inevitably. so i clutch you to my chest, knowing

we will weather the storm together, and i will protect you with my life.

once you sliced your thumb with the kitchen knife, chopping vegetables.

brussel sprouts were my favorite, fickle cabbage devils. cut too thick

and they’d cook stiff, too thin and they’d burn. you risked everything

for the perfect halves, and you paid the price: a gush of velvet blood.

when i saw your bandages i wept, reminded of the time, a year ago

when i stood over the bathroom sink with toilet paper company

and wrought the same damage on myself. and to the girl in the photographs

on the wall: i’m sorry. i have soiled your perfect hands. i have used them for hurting.

will she forgive me? i don’t know. but you did. you held me in your arms

and whispered, it’s okay, it’s over, the bleeding stopped.

it took another minute of soft breathing for me to believe you.

i have confronted the darkness inside of me.

now i must confront the world. does this make sense? this birdhouse

has been my haven for so long. my sickbed. resurrection. i am not

a hummingbird, silent and fleeting. nor am i a bluejay. but i have

songs inside of me pleading to come out. i have listened to them hum

like the gentle kicks of an infant. waiting for my moment was never

an option, contrary to the storybooks. shelter is also a shadow, exposure

an ellipsis, like its sister, freedom. i am here, i call out to it. i have done

enough searching, and i know who i am.

it is time for you to find me.

Natasha Bredle is a young, emerging writer from Ohio. Her works have been featured in numerous international journals and anthologies, including Trouvaille Review, Kalopsia Lit, and Open Minds Quarterly. In addition to poetry and short fiction, she has a passion for longer works and is currently drafting a young adult novel.