Poetry, Words
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Kyla Jonas: melancholia

Words by Kyla Jonas
Photographs by Brandon Yung

Benevolence

I am trying to embroider all
of my apologies onto the
fleshy parts of my fingers.

I am hungry for more kisses
from angels on my cheeks
and more soft lullabies sung
to my stale elbows.

I wish to feel less like the chair
that the morning fog steps off of
in an attempt to hang itself over me.

I pray for days that won’t
always end with me staring
at the floor and whispering
about the heavenly body of earth
to the light behind my dead moss eyes.

I have the outline of butterfly
wings carved across the bare
covering of my ribs.

I am wrapping my heart in Irish wool
to grow into a sweater with every beat
and warm my antarctic essence.

I will one day hold fondness
and humility in my rough hands
and bestow it upon myself.

I will be covered in shadows of
babies breath flowers whenever
I am immersed in sunlight.

I will absorb tenderness.

Vacant Small Talk

My mind is a vacant car lot.
Is this it?
Is this what the tired
hands of a future have
to hold for me?

There is a cavity in my love vessel.
Tender melancholia tours
around me.
This is the day that
my chest falls back
onto the rest of me.

I am defeated by those trying to
pull my insides out, but only
on holy days.
I engage in a faithful hold
on my fork.
The intestines
of sweet potato intimidate me.

Everyone looks at pie like
reading erotica.

I sit deep, deep
in the dead tree of a seat. I am
lost in the fullness of my stomach
I found my head and heart there.

You see me, soft and sold into
your aged eyes.

The guts of the leftover meal are

scraped off of the porcelain plates,

making that very familiar

screaming sound.

I open my mouth
a load of lies come out.
I reach out my hand to you,
for you to find a peach pit.
I am giving you the
very seed of my soul.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 

Kyla Jonas is 16 years old and goes to New Roads High school. She loves hot coffee, the early morning hours, and pressing flowers. She spends most of her time reading or writing. 

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