Chronicle No.7
By Autumn Woods
I lit a eucalyptus candle before my shower and thought of you; I thought of the horses we let run wild. I tried to remember how we used to be; how we used to melt under the moon. It’s October now, and I want to start drinking coffee—one sugar with half-and-half, the way my dad orders it.
My friends come over, and I resist the urge to ask them if I'm enough—if what I’m doing means anything. The spiced cakes we made were baked with wishful wantings. We light a candle and make a wish, like we’re kids all over again. There is an underlying confessional taste in the first bite. I tried to tell my friends that I don’t understand why she didn’t want me, why none of them do for long, but I didn’t want to spoil the first bite because I know better. I wish we danced around underneath the autumn moon with the cakes in our hands as a thank you.
I’m tailor made for someone – SOMEONE TRUE! SOMEONE REAL! SOMEONE WITH DEPTH! SOMEONE TO CARRY MY HEART AND HOLD IT DELICATELY IN THEIR HANDS! I want her to tell me how she saw me that one night I thought we were going to make it; I couldn’t beg her to stay, it wouldn’t have been fair—it never is. I’m reminded that there is a melancholic taste in everything I seem to touch. I want to be known and delicately cared for.
I am sick at heart.
My human heart has withered.
It is time to remember the helm. The love on the cove. The night the wine made her say all the right things. I’m melancholic and warm with regret. I go to battle with half-sewn armor and a broken bow. I wait patiently to be seen. I’m the flower that wilts too early. I’m the fox that gently passes by.
I’m tired of being confessional. I want to be held by someone I shouldn’t. I’m the eldest daughter, what more could you ask of me? I realize that I cannot voyage to find the North Star. To beg her to bestow my mother’s candor demeanor onto me, because I should know better. I never let my grasp cease. It is harder for me to let go—it always has been. I’m bleeding with truth; I'm bleeding from it. And I know I’m not as brave as I should be, but it's all the brave I can be; it is all the bravery I can render. And I know you won’t see me the way I should be seen, but I can’t turn away.
I’m being swallowed by something I cannot seem to name. I try to capture it in my dreams as if I'm taming a creature. Everything tastes beguiling and feeds on my youth. Even darling dearest gets bitten by her past. All I can do about it is make tea and be a good star. Be less solemn and loosen the grasp on my heavy quill. I can bow my head as a fawn would and pray. I can wear white lace to bear my depiction of purity. I can tie a ribbon around the cedar and beg the birch trees for forgiveness. I can taste the tree's sonnets and try not to cough up my confessions at breakfast.
I can do very little, but be melancholic.
About Autumn:
Autumn Woods is a young writer who sees herself as an unreliable narrator who writes from underneath the birch trees. She has a deep adoration for tea, fawns, and the moon. She loves the stars, so she wears a star ring and pendant as if they held stardust themselves. The infamous Fleabag Scriptures and Cigarettes After Sex lyrics are what you'd find sown into the cedar of her favorite birch tree.
