Olivia Dodge
Bio
22 | Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
Stories (60/0)
Ode to Anne / Change of Seasons
Should I break the fourth wall? Should I call upon you who reads this and ask— what am I supposed to do when my lungs fill with acid and my heart cannot quieten? I have not written in days and I can feel it— I mean really feel it— inside of my throat begging to be gagged free. Anticipation claws at my eyelids. My angels have not spoken to me in weeks. I watch this woman each day— walking through endless halls carrying frames which may as well be strangers. I don’t think I know anything anymore. I’ve lost it all. Should I break the fourth wall? Should I call upon this woman, a character in my mind? She is real, you know. She peers out the window. All the wrong places. I can feel springtime upon the soles of my feet. I always loved spring. There is a tree on my bus’s route decorated with a million birdhouses. [I like to think the birds know one another] Can I be frank? I miss February. She gave me an excuse to feel miserable. You’ve survived February, Dear. The spinney will bloom adjacent to sidewalks and your skin will no longer shed each night as ice upon your lips. You are so close to warmth. When I find myself above the toilet tonight with prayers spilling from my throat I will remember these words. Until then.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Love, Plainly
Love seems to be one of the many things which humans cannot fathom, in any sense. Any sense, we do not understand what it is to love something with our entire being. Our entire being is ours; it does not belong to someone else, so why would we devote it to anyone but us? It’s selfish, plainly. Plainly put, we do not love because we are selfish. In any sense, humans are vile and we cannot allow love within our entire beings because we need strength and love makes us weak. It’s simple. And we cannot fathom this-- why? Any sense, any sense at all, we cannot love because love is weakness but we are so tired of being strong. Weakness is not unfathomable, not like love is-- we gather our weaknesses and keep them within our beings because they protect us from the vile and selfish feelings that our bodies force us to have. Love has no room within me. I am too full of weakness to be handed a strength disguised as weakness. We cannot fathom this, in any sense-- strength is hidden within weakness but we are selfish still. Is it not vile? It is vile to witness this lack of sense, this lack of sense in any sense. My entire being is love, plainly put. Yes, plainly put, there is no room for love because that is what I am made of and is that not vile? To preach of humanity’s selfishness and be made of the weakness which we fear. Our being is ours. Our being is weakness. We are made of love, but we cannot love ourselves. Love does not want to be understood.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Haunted Earth
The haunted earth tells me the angels are watching over me and have felt my sadness and are sending me love and healing. There are puddles on the sidewalk and I look for the clouds but it is a man watering his grass. Why don’t I believe him— that the universe in its haunting can recognize despair. My footprints remain for mere minutes in the sun, I know this. I am sure we are made of discontent. I’m sure of it— the ghosts and apparitions long to consume our sadness in their endless days. It is warm in the sun. How they must wander. Wandering haunted plains as November approaches and trees become barren. They watch over me— us— humans— all things living. I wonder if the sun is a ghost. Apparitions send warmth to our chambers and hope we will feel them with us but we cannot. We shade our eyes with our hands and how he must scowl at us. I want to welcome the sun— oh, but what of wrinkles? My eyes cannot become old. Without belief we cannot begin to heal, he tells me. The haunted earth scowls. Apparitions hold their palms open— they collect our pain and it becomes a passing memory. Our sadness may be a ghost as well. My footprints are no longer visible as the sun has taken my print and transformed it into a ghost because he too wants a friend. November is nearly here, my friend.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
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 Dodge2 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 Dodge2 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 Dodge2 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 Dodge2 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 Dodge2 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 Dodge2 years ago in Poets