In this search of a thousand shoes, the girl called myself has been in many. She has a heightened compassion, and a sense of purpose that not I, but life, has instilled in her. It does not happen all at once, and nothing does, but she is a series of messy sketches I will never get rid of.
I have been told that my skin is too
that I shatter like porcelain,
And though that is true that I am easily taken by a
I am no speck of dust,
But a dandelion seed.
It is when swept away that I create,
it is when I am buried that I shift earth
with my own two outstretched arms
And when it rains?
I shoot sprouts of flowers
into the air
The thing about me,
Is that I may look as fragile
As my fluffy petals of pale yellow
But my roots grasp the ground.
My strength is there,
Beneath the grass,
Beneath the surface.
- Alanna Cahill
By Alanna Cahill
They tell you not to go back
to what hurt you
that it is a sign of
But this world
hurts me everyday
I am not as weak
as you think
I have been practicing vulnerability
by choosing seats where my back has to face other than just the wall behind me.
My eyes still dart sometimes, so I adorn my sunflower pupil doodles in rows of tiny ink petals. If
you watch the lines of my pen, they wiggle until they tremble, until they are smooth.
- By Alanna Cahill
He is the kindest creature
I have seen in months
And his eyes go far away
When he talks of cities,
And the places he will be
Pretend not to notice
The way he
Pockets the pennies
That have fallen between
Us and the crevices
Of the cab seat
- by Alanna Cahill
I was once one noticed like dust
Visible only to those with minds blank
And eyes astray,
Pathless, floating, resting
I was once an artist of that kind.
I was once the devils chandelier
That lit like shocks, and instilled fear
I laughed and grinned, but did not smile
I counted my sins on sanded skin,
And blades of finger nails.
I once cried tears of gasoline,
And lived holding bones of popcorn kernels
Unsettled and stung by heats violet fire
Fluffed and light, wide opened eyes
A confused smile, a face that masked spite
I was once a disaster of that kind
I once wore shoes that did not fit
And balanced diamonds on my wrist
I once adorned myself in pearls
And hung expensive leather
from my wrist,
I was once a hanger of that kind
But like all versions that have crossed,
What becomes always comes to die
And perhaps who I am
Is ill defined
By single statements and single faces
So I do prefer to reference my past of
And her, and her, and me