Kore Quin

  • Gone.

    I’ve never felt so much and so empty at the same time;

    Like a volcanic eruption and a tsunami colliding within my mind.

    Words mean nothing when they fall on unwilling ears.

    And as much as I’m aware I need them, they won’t come– the tears.

    The tears to cleanse the catastrophe I can’t reconcile within me

    Seem just out of reach. But when they come, then where will I be?

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  • Caged.

    My stomach is tight.
    My emotions are raw.
    But I continue to fight
    And that is my flaw.
    Pride is my Sin,
    But forever I’ll hide.
    Still I’m a glutton to win;
    Just empty inside.
    Afraid to spread hurt.
    Scared of the world,
    Of words I might spurt,
    Or desires unfurled.
    So in my cage I will stay,
    Not making much sound,
    Seeking a gateway
    That’ll never be found.

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  • Extinguish

    Just when the flame ignites,

    When I feel that spark–

    The light is suffocated;

    I’m left sitting in the dark.

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  • Shattered.

    “You can’t pour from an empty cup.”

    I think about this as I mix the wet and dry ingredients together. Surely, you can see when the cup is nearing empty? All you have to do is look in the cup, assuming the container isn’t clear.

    But, you can feel it, too, can’t you, as it’s getting lighter and easier to tilt? It’s emptying into a vastness that will not merely contain it, but incorporate the liquids into something better.

    Assuming I don’t burn it because something else required my attention. Assuming this particular oven doesn’t run hot and the elevation hasn’t changed. Assuming I even pour it into the dry ingredients, or don’t spill it on the countertop because the container isn’t light, but it’s made of glass, and glass is actually really heav– y.

    The mess surrounds me. Shards of glass litter the floor like confetti amongst a pile of muck. It doesn’t just surround me, though. The impact has sent it all across the kitchen, splashing cupboards, flowing under the refrigerator, underneath chairs, not to mention my clothes…

    And just like that glass mixing bowl, I break, too. Only I don’t know where all my pieces have gone. They’re not hiding under the fridge, my ingredients are not splattered against the walls.

    How did I not see the contents of my being coming to a dripping point? How did I not know I may have been over-pouring? How am I supposed to measure how much of myself to give when I don’t know how much I’m pouring, or how much I have left? Did I look away or choose to ignore it? Do I have a leak and I simply missed the opportunity to patch it up like a tire on a country road?

    I can plainly see that the glass isn’t going to be able to be put back together, but what about me? Is this something an adhesive can fix? Am I now something that can never again hold what it once did? Am I just an empty cup? Or am I, too, shattered beyond repair, no matter how much I clean the mess?

  • A Penny.

    A penny for your thoughts, my dear,

    Your mask, it’s descending from it’s place.

    Relax, come closer, I’ll just take it– here.

    There’s no use hiding, it’s etched upon your face.

    Come and sit, explain what’s wrong.

    Your cheeks are raw, your eyes are wet.

    Your breathing’s ragged, smile’s gone.

    The tightness of your silhouette

    Is heavy ‘nough to sway the moon;

    Tides are thrashing, clashing on the shore–

    And the pouring rains will be here soon.

    Shadows came; your glow’s no more.

    A penny for your thoughts, my dear,

    Your mask, it’s slipping from your skin.

    The sparkle’s been replaced by fear,

    But surely you can beat it– surely, you can win.

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  • Paper Boats.

    I crouch near a puddle, stick in my hand and swirl the muddy water as though I’m drawing, watching the clouds spin and twirl; a dance of liquid and solid. Mingling, floating, carrying, lifting. Falling. Diving. Drowning.

    A tiny paper boat sails into my line of vision, and like Pandora, I go to open it– but is it full of curses or blessings? Is the cat alive? Or is it dead? The message is full of intrigue, but I sense it– the predation. I’m a fool to ignore the warning instinct is telling me, but an engaging exchange is a rarity.

    So, I dance like the mud in the water. I don’t really answer the questions, but answers are received all the same. The steps are complicated, and quickly realized as a clever conversation becomes invasive. I glance up, down the puddle-filled road– all filled with similar origami creations, some folded more elegantly than others.

    A port in a world with which I am unfamiliar.

    I try to fold the paper back to it’s original state, but I can’t tell in what order the creases took place, and soon, it’s raining. The paper in my hand bleeds ink, staining, and the once tiny boat is falling apart, dissolving and morphing until it can no longer be read and returns to the place I found it.

    The puddle.

    Only it’s no longer a puddle, it’s an ocean, and the currents are too strong for me to stay afloat, to swim to the safety of land, but everything has been swallowed by the water.

    A mix of liquid and solid, swaying to the pull of the moon. There’s no diving, just the overtaking. The falling as I try to breathe, but there’s no point. I can only drown.

    The gods must be outraged, and I am nothing more than prey to them, just as I was the paper boats, not belonging with either. Not built for the eloquent dances they both crave. I’m not strong enough to withstand such forces.

    If only I had been a duck. A duck knows when to sink and when to swim and when to fly. But even ducks can drown.

    If only I, too, had been made of stronger stuff, and not just paper.

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