I can see the man, circling round and round-

I can see the man, circling round and round-
my head, my head is going to burst-
and he stops in the middle of the street and leans-
the weight is pressing against my forehead-
and he looks in the neighbors’ windows across the way-
the pressure is starting to build, up and up-
and he turns around and looks towards me-
my hands shake when they push into my face-
and he leans into his car and presses the horn-
I want to cry out, but I am trapped inside-
and stands back, and looks into my window again-
my temples sting where my fingertips dig into them-
and he gets back into his car where he parked it-
I clutch at my hair, pulling at the roots to feel new pain-
and he starts up the clunker piece of shit car-
my dog growls out the window, runs back and forth-
and he revs his engine and peels up the street-
my brain is going to explode out my ears and eyes-
and he disappears into the night without seeing me-
my mind is leaving, losing the lopsided battle-
and I live to tell the tale of the man who came for me-
my head, my head, myheadmyheadmyhead-
and the way that he got in.

She can see, for the first time in years, what lies beyond the cityscape. The windowed walls that look out over the bright lights of a thriving metropolis are now so much more than glass. Were she to push one open, and take a step, they would be an escape. Were she to shatter one and trigger the alarm, they would be another broken piece of her life, shards of glass lying there in pieces at her feet.

Instead, rather than doing any of that, she presses her palm against the chilled glass. She blinks away the tears that blur her vision, and she focuses briefly on the stunning lights. Just beyond them, though - just beyond her house, just beyond the windows, just beyond the buildings and the city and all those lights - there lies something greater.

It is a mountain she sees. Great, and looming; waiting, casting a shadow over her. With the lights swallowed by the mountain, she can see the stars overhead. She presses her forehead against the glass, and cranes her neck. The stars are stationary; none shoot by, and she understands - the stars are waiting.

"Him and the Golden Sun" by N. L. Mello

"Him and the Golden Sun" by N. L. Mello

nlmellocommissions:

Hey, guys!

As you all know, life is hard, nobody hires anybody anymore. It’s harder to find a job than it is to work. As a result of my unreturned phone calls and ignored applications, I have decided to start doing commissions.

Now, I’m not an artist, but I am a writer. I write things, you see. Most people prefer to have things drawn for them, but I can’t draw, so I’d rather not make you pay for that. Instead, you can help support me by buying a piece of writing. The prices are on the blog; you can click here to see prices, and click here to see my promise.

I will write anything from original work to fan work. Prices vary based on word count, as you can see if you go see my prices. You can see some of my original work here and here, and some of my fan work here. People love getting things as gifts, too; for you friend who loves Doctor Who, I’ll put him in a story. For your niece who loves the zoo, I’ll write about her. Just click here to contact me, or email me at worksbynlmello@gmail.com

Please signal boost this, even if you’re not interested. Thank you!

The Impossible Girl

She is young.

She is bronzed,

with pale skin,

backlit by gold;

with dark hair,

arranged in curls;

with bright eyes,

awash in sunlight.

She has small hands,

with smaller fingers.

She is thin.

She yawns,

and she has a pink mouth,

with white milk teeth.

She smiles.

I reach out to touch her,

and she -

it -

the whole world -

the false reality, it collapses.

I realize -

she is impossible.

Blond

Blond.
Blond is new.
Close is new.
Tangible -
tangible is definitely new.
The smiles are new
(as are the touches,
the winks,
the fidgeting,
the smiles,
the laughing,
the arguing).
The imperfection is new.
Reality -
reality is new
(and feels like a ton of bricks).
Subtle - you’re subtle.
That’s new.
The casual nature,
the long absences,
the uncertainty -
all new.
And, yet, I keep coming back to -
blond.
The blond.
That’s new.
It registers first.
It’s new.
You’re blond.

So Sweet, So Splendid

“So sweet,

so splendid,”

says I,

my face turned up,

my eyes locked on the tips of trees.

 

“‘Tis nothing,

‘tis nonsense,”

says he,

his face turned down,

his eyes locked on reality.

 

“Very dull,

very dry,”

says she,

her face turned away,

her eyes locked on the middle space.

 

“So sweet,

so splendid,”

says you,

your face turned up,

your eyes locked on the tips of trees.

Brother Nature

Your skin is soft grass,
carved stone,
cool ice under my hands.

Your hair is gentle wind,
rustled leaves,
flowing water in my fingers.

Your mind is brilliant sunlight,
thriving nests,
singing birds in my grasp.

Your sigh is a bee’s buzz,
a stream’s splash,
a cloud passing through my head.

You are nature alive,
present, tangible,
here to be beheld by my mortal person.

Based on Les Misérables

Based on Les Misérables

based on les miserables

based on les miserables

Tacos: A Play

“a play about tacos in which there are no lines and rehearsals include eating tacos”

TYLER sits at a park bench, Taco Bell bag at his side. His taco meat is soaking through the shell, but no matter. It is a taco, and this is enough.

HANK comes up next to him, his own Taco Bell bag clutched tightly in his right hand. He looks at the space on the bench beside TYLER expectantly. TYLER shifts his Taco Bell bag to rest in the grass at his feet. HANK sits and pries open his bag.

It seems as though TYLER wants to say something. He opts not to, instead taking another bite of his taco. HANK pulls his own taco out of his greasy bag and does the same. The two sit in relative silence, save for the odd crunch of a particularly hard bit of shell.

HANK gestures to his taco as though trying to say something to TYLER. TYLER just nods understandingly. HANK feels understood. This is a friendship for the ages.

end

Winter

Your snowflake lips
and fingertips
are cold as winter air.

Your lightest touch,
the coldest rush
of whispered words so rare.

Your snowy eyes
are fireflies
whose light we get to share.

The frost in us
remains sightless
and chooses not to care.

This winter, please
just let me freeze
and save our love affair.

So I may last
while seasons pass,
while you go wait somewhere.

Our love is one
that can’t be done
under the warm sun’s glare.

And you and I
with foggy sighs,
well, we make quite a pair.

Through frozen rain
you still remain
lingering far out there.

All winter we’ll
live life ideal.
Wait for me, and take care.

My snowflake dove,
my winter love,
summer just can’t compare.

So, here I’ll sit,
and get frost bit,
and wait for you, I swear.

Devil Eyes

I was given the challenge of writing a poem in seven minutes without editing it at all. I accepted the challenge. Here is the product.

Folded
pressed
but, god,

you’re a mess.
The war did something
that you can’t fix
and I can’t miss
and that’s all I feel.
All I feel when I kiss you
is the trembling
hesitation
fixation
sensation
of you being somewhere else
of guns blazing
and eyes glazing
and stargazing
and death so sweet
and close by.
Your heart may sing,
but your eyes disappear.
Your colors are flat.
You’ve got all the life just sucked out of you.
The greys are deep
The greens don’t keep
and the blues in a heap
in the corner
where the laundry basket
was before you left.
Your eyes were blue when they left
like the laundry in the corner.
They aren’t there anymore.
Your daughter misses you.
She asks where you are
and I send her to you
and you stare.
You stare at your own daughter
and you don’t see her.
You stare at the clock on the wall
and what catches your fall
and the end of it all.
The war robbed us of money
and jobs
and my rings,
but I could ignore all that
if I still had you.
You, with your combed hair
and foreign affair
and vacant stare,
are still in Germany.
Your tie has green dots.
Pale green on dark green.
Everything is olive
and forest
and emerald
except for you.
You are white
and ivory
and snow.
You have blood on your hands
and on your cheeks
and in your damned devil eyes.
I can’t stand this.
I can’t live like this.
You’re not here
You can’t hear
You’re gone.
You’re gone,
and I’m not a gun.
I’m not a soldier.
I’m not a bomb,
not the kind you want.
I’m love,
the opposite of war.
But you want the love of war.
Opposites attract
and your sorrow attracts my joy
and sucks it so we’re the same.
We don’t have identities.
Our identity is war
and now you have the war you always wanted.
The war is in our minds
and in our hearts
and in our very beings,
because it doesn’t stay where it was.
The treaty isn’t signed
and everyone goes home happy.
The treaty is signed
and everyone carries a chunk of war home
and that’s all we are now.
We are folded,
and we are pressed,
and we are goddamned mess.