daphne gray
Bio
just a girl in this world who thinks a lot and writes a lot and some of it makes sense and some of it doesn't. enjoy nevertheless.
Stories (34/0)
October 25th.
I haven’t written in so long. The heels of the world penetrate my back and I cannot help but crumble at the pressure of it all. I am always picking between one vice or another, one love or another, never finding time for both. If I accomplish something in one area it is not without disappointing myself in another.
By daphne gray9 months ago in Poets
cure for better days
I don’t know how to write about the beautiful parts of life. I hone in on my pain and my despair and I forget that there is beauty in everything. I sit outside to remember. It’s a sunny day. It is such a sunny day and the breeze provides the most wonderful cooling. I can hear crickets chirping over my music while I watch the bees pick their favorite blades of grass. Tree branches above me swaying lightly but constantly. A breath of fresh air, hold for four, and an exhale through my mouth. Repeat. In the light of the day there is so much. So much to watch and so much to miss if you do not pay attention. I watch the golfers in their carts and I watch them play and I hear them cheer. Hip hop in the summer. A week until fall, on the dot. The leaves around me will change color, as some have already started. From vibrant greens to luscious oranges and even prettier reds. Yellow will fall from the sky onto the ground and brown bark will be all anyone will see. And it is still beautiful. When the snow, still far in the future, falls, magical and peaceful, making the days quieter, there will be beautiful white coats on each tree. Naked branches beneath. I can see the yellow flowers on the big tree by the parking deck. They are here but they will go, and they’ll return. There is so much to miss if you do not pay attention. The sun can cure and it truly, always, does. There is no better medicine for sadness than the glories of this life.
By daphne gray10 months ago in Poets
unheard melodies
I get butterflies just from staring at you. I wake up excited to make coffee because you say mine is "really good" and tell me how much you like it, why wouldn’t I? And I make waffles, because it’s Sunday and you love Sunday waffles. Yesterday you made me dinner, cooked me lasagna. For no reason, too, I was so confused. You say I’m your favorite woman and you play me, with your guitar, melodies unheard. Sometimes I feel like I’m suffocating, my exhale cracking the crystal; I stay still because I get petrified my dream will shatter. When I rub my eyes, I feel you drawing shapes on my back. You asked me once if you could wash my hair, I think I blacked out then. No one really expected it from us, on paper it doesn’t seem like it'd compute, but here we are. You came home early from work and class, and a party on multiple occasions. When you say you’d rather be with me I blush so hard I can feel the blood rush beneath my skin. When I have your hair in my fingertips, twirling and twiddling and tickling all around, I feel at ease. When you fall asleep on my chest, with your warm breath spanning my chest, I can sleep again.
By daphne gray10 months ago in Poets
Siren Song
I have one cigarette left. Half, really. I thought flicking its ashes into the ground beneath me would be fine, but it’s fire dimmed. I’m trying to save it. I don’t know what to do. I asked God to help me cry, but I cannot cry. My fingers are squeezing the cigarette together and I am seriously contemplating walking a half hour just to buy a new pack. I already said I didn’t want to write about this stupid addiction anymore, but I am unwell and cannot help it.
By daphne gray10 months ago in Poets
The City.
A city is not what, necessarily, I want, but perhaps it is exactly what I need. Endless noise and inconsequential chatter. Bodies pushing past each other to make it to locations you’ll never know, and it doesn’t matter. A boardgame land with moves to make or break.
By daphne gray10 months ago in Poets
a school gymnasium
I am stuck in a school gymnasium. Between Halloween dances and award ceremonies. Between art showcases and poetry readings. I am the boy giving the girl a plastic rose on Valentine’s Day and the one sitting sullenly for not having done so earlier. I am the science fair exhibition where my peers brag about their brightly colored ribbons. I am the girls gossiping and also the ones eavesdropping. I wake up in my childhood bed but my feet touch the end. I keep trying to fall back asleep; I’m tired, I’m so, so tired. But the sun is a painfully punctual alarm clock and my curtains aren’t that good at their job.
By daphne gray12 months ago in Poets
People watching
I am not happy with my body. I am not happy with my mood. I am made less happy by my family, sometimes. I go out on my balcony only to smoke. I listen to music to drown out the thoughts but they are my own, and I cannot escape them. I write poetry like I am something special. I watch the cars drive down my street and I hide my cigarette. I try to be so bold and brave but I don’t want people to see me like this. I turn on 'dark mode' so the light doesn’t reflect on my face. I don’t want to be seen. My neighbors are packing their cars across from me. There is one star in the sky and a spiderweb in my near corner. I watch the ant roaming near my foot but I flick it when it gets too close. I feel sick again. Maybe I should stop. I should go inside and take my shower. I should take my shower, appreciating how I’m home alone. Alone with my thoughts, my music, my mom’s cigarette, and myself. I just want the time to pass. I’d love to be okay again. I can’t tell anyone I’m not. Telling people the truth changes everything I’ve suffered through lying about. I’d like to disappear into the sun. I like the cool breeze that the nightfall brings. I feel too hot, too often. I feel too hot right now; too hot and too sick. I am always sick. “I’m just tired.” I stroke my own cheek and I brush my own hair. I scratch my back and I sit in the shower until my fingers prune. I’m making a mess of these ashes and I’ll have to clean them up again myself. My hair will smell like cigarettes and so will my phone. I will feel sick when I go to bed and lay my hands under my head. I imagine a life different than mine. Any. A fourth car has pulled into my neighbor's driveway. Two men come out, they walk around, they open and close doors. They walk in and out of the house.
By daphne grayabout a year ago in Poets