Rachel Dula is an exuberant graduate of the Publishing Major at Illinois State University with a high passion for all of the arts. She’s read for the Festival and A Reading eXperiment at the 2015 AWP Conference in Minneapolis. When her parents ask her what she wants to do with her life, she says she wants to “become a comedian.” She has been published in StarWallPaper, a Chicago anthology for young writers, in 7th grade because of a poem that just happened to be her homework. Find more of her work at http://figment.com/users/237709-Rachel-Dula.
Beer cans and whiskey bottles
Drunken attempts, sliced skin, and dopamine pills
A garbage dump for a pathetic waste of space
A recyclable piece of pixel paper
Blank like an artist’s untouched canvas.
A stroke of a quiet quill
Dancing letters, daring desires
Hours tick tocking away.
Yearning yawns of crumpled crap
Crackling of crinkled sheets.
Eyes drooping as a hand caresses a cheek.
The artist’s canvas still untouched
House of the Suicide Sleep
The loneliness of the hour came home to me
In the salty eclipse
I pick stars
I saw the night on the outer rim of the drinking glass
In the severing cloud of the sow
A broken armada.
A rainy disease of jittering drops
The state of the tear that slips off
The house was submerged in the cool lake of air
Lakes cannot drown me
I am circling passwords.
Everything down to the words was in motion, in expectation
We fantasized foreplay with the person standing next to us
Buried in skin
The house gave a long answer
In the moment of ecstasy
A spreading of good news over an area without elements
Without speaking identity.
The music was light in its sound
I play songs for the errors
A breath was enough for differentiation
Of the suicide sleep
The day was without hours.