Little Flames - Ella Perras ‘23

This piece was inspired by an old photo of my mother. Ballerinas adorned in delicate golden tutus display subdued body language, yet such personality is present in their faces. I wanted to emphasize this personality with a bold motif of flames to show this juxtaposition in a more salient manner.

WILDFIRE

Her touch was like licking up the remnants of red from my mother’s wine glass.

Never enough.

Like on the playground in elementary school,

how the hot sun made my skin tacky

and my friend’s hair frizzy

so I’d braid it up for her,

and my fingers always grazed the pink skin on the tips of her ears,

all translucent and soft,

like tulip petals.

I was always afraid that if I let myself linger there for too long

the heat would make her shrivel up

away from me.

There’s something so fragile in the way I love people.

My hands always beg for a closeness my body can never allow.

Like interlocking fingers.

The touching of foreheads.

Kisses on eyelids,

cheeks.

noses,

lips.

The pressure of palms against stomachs

and heads laying on shoulders.

I don’t let people hug me anymore

because I know they’ll feel my fluttering heart against their chest.

Feel the heat of my cheek against their own.

Feel how it takes just a little longer for me to let go.

I make up for it in hard punches to soft arms.

Sharp kicks to the stomach.

There can be no vulnerability in aggression.

There is no heat in a closed fist.

I have come to admit that I am a starving creature,

paradoxically, for my own survival.

There is an air between myself and those I love

under the fear that if they get too close,

they will only stoke my fire.

They will be singed, as what was once a tawny rum heat,

low in the belly,

grows into a wildfire.

All dry gray bark under flame

burning up my insides.

There is so much kindling in this body of mine,

and so I act as a smokejumper,

dousing the flames before they get too hot,

or at least until

I can find someone

who can handle the heat.

And yet,

despite my efforts,

friends turn to lovers turn to strangers,

and, every time, my heart beats the same unsteady rhythm.

Like the shuffle of a child’s careful feet along a curb,

unstable despite their persistence.

That I will give her.

This little mound of muscle never ceases to stop beating.

I never seem to stop caring.

Never stop falling for the same watery blue eyes

and button noses.

Brown hair and constellation cheekbones.

Blushing pink ears,

sun kissed and soft.

Phoenix Medley ‘23

I wrote this piece as an attempt to rationalize some of the fear I have towards intimacy and receiving physical affection. I used to love giving hugs to my friends and family, but at some point, I started to hate giving and receiving physical affection. This piece was me trying to understand why I began to despise it so much.