Olivia Dodge
Bio
23 | Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
Stories (105)
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Letting Go
What’s the hardest part about letting go? The sun always seems too bright. Time moves slowly. My feet drag through mud and I just can’t find it in me to scrape the remains on the sidewalk. When darkness falls I miss the shadows. I watch myself age in the mirror each day. My socks are too thin. Every song spits memories in my face. Thunderstorms keep me awake at night and I can’t decipher if they’re real anymore. It all feels like a test. Like I’m supposed to catch Aroldis Chapman’s pitch with my bare hands. Like my shattered bones should exceed expectations. Like the ambulance had planned my injury and waited patiently for the crack. I tell them to cover the windows. They mock my dirt-ridden shoes. I cannot find my voice. Is this another test? Darkness comes quickly. Paramedics sing our song in unison. None of this is real. I do not have the strength to let go. This torturous hallucination could not possibly be worse than a reality with endless grief.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Sins / March
March. Finally. I dreaded February as I knew I would. I suppose I should feel relief. I suppose I should feel a lot of things. My therapist tells me to focus on the physicality of emotions to better understand them. I’m ashamed to admit I have practiced this fewer times than fingers on my right hand. She tells me she’s proud of me twice a month. I cannot afford to see her more often. March manifests as small green bugs scattering upon my skin. Three years ago my cat tried to catch them. Thought they were toys. Food. Made for him. I should come to understand this mindset in time. February hangs above me as a crib mobile. Taunts me with my faults. I’m swaddled beneath— unable to reach them with stubby arms. Cries escape through chapped lips but I know there is no one to cradle me here. My sins scratch at my throat. Is this what it feels like to suffocate? I think my lungs are collapsing. The weather is changing and it makes me anxious. Shallow breath and an overstimulated brain. These are the physicalities of my anxiety. My green bugs are congregating. Giving speeches and recounting the winter months they spent within my skull. I suppose it would be selfish to squash them beneath my fingers. They will climb the fish and stars above me in time. Watch over my decaying body as spring showers through my windows. I will not die this month. February held a gun to my head in my sleep. March stands silently in my room. She waits for my eyes to open. Unfastens my blanket and carries my bugs to the window to be set free. Hands me water for my throat scratched raw. I suppose this is relief.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Daisy May
I do not remember most things. I do not remember the words I said yesterday or the day before and I will not remember the words I say tomorrow. I do not remember the day my father left or my last day of high school. I do not remember if it was blistering hot or if the clouds provided relief but I like to imagine it was a beautiful day. Perfect weather for grave-digging and swallowing shards of glass. She could not suffer one day more with noxious organs weighing her down and I know the trees could feel my misery because I cracked my bones one by one and sat them at their roots. Take these, please. Take them for me. I do not need them. Please. I remember teeth through skin and needles injecting death into her bloodstream. This I remember. I watched him grab fistfuls of dirt and it may as well have been joy personified crushed between tendons and running through fingers as vermilion water— dare I say blood? She could not walk anymore, had endured many falls in her last weeks. I let her fall. Heard the whines and ran to see humiliation in a heap of black fur. Take her, please. Take her pain and take her body and show her the eternal fields of wheat. I cannot help her. The woman met us in sunlit grass and presented her tools and this is where the teeth come in— this is where joy is crushed and bones are ripped from my body. This is where I remember.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Departure
How does one depart from happiness? I cannot decide the best route— tears is the obvious answer. There is a well inside of me and the water is drying up. I try to swim but my feet touch the ground. What of the brick itself— I coat them in cement, glue them and tape them together; give me something. Anything. My tears will dry with the well. Departure cannot be sewn together.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Schubert Ave
A woman walks with cement-clad legs and a man halts his wheels with no concern. Peering through windows and I know he is the only one alive here. Carrying donuts and dragging garbage and the bus is taking up too much space. Is it the winter that makes us walk as clones— with hands in pockets and feet scuffled? I take in my surroundings with baited breath. Caboose of a billboard distorted in my mind— each time I gaze I know it is not my future home.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
February is a Curse
I dreamt of anger last night. Of my father and neglect. Of an overwhelming dysfunction. Of an unexpected death. My angel did not grip my shoulder and the sun burned my skin. I was gifted the gift of Gods. Speaking in riddles to hide my truth. I plead to my angel as my feet carry me to the shore. Use your light to outshine the shadow within my rib cage. The moon shelters the sun above me. My dreams play on a loop. I want to scream. Bodies lie flat against artificial grass. I want to run. Flags wrap around poles in stagnancy. This world is not mine. The angels do not call to me today. My father does not love me today. Death does not consume me today. Riddles upon riddles and they do not satisfy the ache atop my tongue. I pray for my teeth to shatter. For my bones to deliquesce. For my legs to be torn to pieces if only to feel the tear. Today is not mine. Today is etched in stone to exile my body. I dreamt of anger last night and it cursed my bloodshot eyes.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
Strawberries and Angels
Spotlight on the praying hands of a little girl. A veil and a white dress. Dangling is the cross upon her collarbones. She follows me into the next room. Joined by a friend. A sister maybe. Natural light now. Old wearing are the frames that capture her life never ending. They draw the shades to revert to past ways. TVs hung eastbound and hearts worse for wear. I am hanging on your sentences with knuckles turned white. The train station lights do not shine unto her hands clasped and her pendant does not echo the sun. My jaw is clenching. I wonder if her friend (sister?) feels the bitter sting of winter beneath her dress. A man at the train offers me fruit because you might as well enjoy life right? Flooding the streets are my bad memories as snow drifts and black ice. Yellow siding and the ominous print of a cat who has since passed. My hands are turning purple but these strawberries sure are good. He tells me his favorite artists: Sinatra, Martin, Lewis. I nod along. I never noticed his cane. Does he see the angel? Does he hear her pray on the stone bench next to me? Does he see the bright light between her collarbones and the artificial gleam of my unshed tears? I wonder if this scene will be framed. Shared strawberries could be as impactful as religion I think. I hope he finds shelter tonight. I hope strawberries guide faith upon his skin and feeling into his hip. I hope the angel offers her sun for warmth.
By Olivia Dodge4 years ago in Poets
