I woke from my sleep to write to you
that I’ll never see a willow tree without thinking of our lost wedding
and I don’t think I can sleep in these sheets anymore
because no matter how many times I move the clothes
or put up a new shelf
it’s still ours and it’s still October
and it’s never going to change the way I need it to
I woke from my sleep to tell you
that I’m never going to have the land for a tree of my own
and I wish I had enough money to rebuild the past
because it’s beautiful to remember
but it’s going to hurt me anyway
and the clocks are turning back to give us an extra hour
of sleepless grief
and an October that drags on
like a white-lace train
— ODH
About the Creator
Olivia Dodge
23 | Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
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IF FOUND / IF DEAD
IF FOUND / IF DEAD Here’s What You Need To Know: Every thing I’ve ever seen, I’ve loved. I’ve lived the lives of every person in mine, and I know the things they’ve done and the things they’ve grieved and the things they’ve endured and the things they’ve adored, and I’ve felt every thing they’ve felt. I’ve been a stray and I’ve been an example, and this is the thing for which I have been fighting: gifting a spoonful of amenity to each inch, each meter, each ounce of thing that has ever been. My feelings are felt everywhere and my blessings are passed on and my receptions are plastered in the rooms which made us the thing we are, people, places, ideas, stories. I’ve been as hopeless and as ecstatic and as anguished and as passionate and as terrified as every one of you. I have the ever-greatest unmeasurable amount of adoration for every thing I have ever touched and seen and smelt and heard, and you are one of them. You have been in a part of my life that had never come before, and I will miss it in the next. I will dream of some thing I cannot place, and I will admire you, this thing, when I am contemplating the feet that hang from my bed-frame. You will be a sound I heard in second grade and a scent I recognized on my lunch break fourteen years later, and you will be the streak of paint that completes a yearly masterpiece in some studio I never got around to this time. Who knows what the name will be, perhaps an homage to you, perhaps to me, perhaps any thing I have felt and seen, any thing I have written in ink, any thing I have typed with nail-bitten pads, any color the sky has ever been. There are more colors than this, you know. There are so many things you will learn when you join me, and I will await your arrival with pistachio-palms and cool-mint-hair, and it’s not a cloud or a heavenly home, but a place only we have seen, or smelt, or touched, or lived. I will not mourn you while my feet hang lonesome and I will not count the heartbeats that lead to our re-unity, but I will admire the imitations of your spirit and I will leave a graze of green upon it and the stain will visit you with hopeful eyes and security above every inch of ground we’ve ever known, and you will feel my hand on your arm and you will not be afraid, not be glum, not be pensive in any way that does not mirror an applause— an ovation of rave that reaches lands beyond sea. If I am no longer next to you, take these words as mandate, as a scrape from bowls sat fixed in stainless-(if you say so)-steel and shunned for the exact amount of time it takes for it to start recruiting the space, spreading whiffs of all things bad like a middle-school locker room: Believe in the prospect of every tear; but still smile as you are cleaning my pants to find solace in a closet for the next three years until a little guy named courage walks into the room and they make their way to the thrift shop. Believe in the growth of your ability to love and lose, and believe in the things you experience now, here— the combination stargazers and easy-on-the-eyes carnations, the dust of my entire soul in a crafted-forevermore home, the bellflowers, the cherry wood, the golden trumpet and the piano and the air that is standing between us. Believe in the belief that I am a believer— in purpose, in guidance, in empathy, in morality and sacrifice, passion and faith, devotion and resilience, and throw your misgivings to a wicker basket and feel belief in your pores for the certainty that I, the one whom you grieve, am a believer in the immortality of my life. Not a mansion in the sky, but a desk with four half-gone tubes of burnt sienna and phthalo blue, and I am forever the person you know me to be, and you are forever the person who made it to me, and we are forever the people to live and foresee: that I am inside of your body and inside of your home, and you will feel sad and you will feel lost but you will not find room for blame, as blame has done no good. I want you to extract that wing entirely from the process, and I want you to throw out anything you desire, and re-paint the walls to some mauvey-earthtone or whatever finds its way between your fingers in a hell-lit warehouse, and I want you to break the drywall down if that’s what it takes for you to hear my voice. I am never away— I am every thing. I am always with you. I have seen you, and I have loved you, and I have been with you in every sense of it. I am your heart. I am the wind and the sand and the reflection on your sunset windows, and I am the pen you find in the bottom of your purse that glides like wrapping paper, and I am you, I am you, I am you.
By Olivia Dodge3 months ago in Poets
Why Black History Matters in America?
The United States of America is celebrating their 250th anniversary in 2026. I'm proud to be an American and as someone who was born here, I wouldn't imagine myself living anywhere else. This is a country where opportunities are possible. Where anyone can be successful in anything they desire to do. Equality, community, and togetherness are the backbones of what America is and should be about. However, we have an administration who wants to erase and disregard those who have made positive, meaningful impacts in our country, specifically Black figures, such as Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks, and Maya Angelou. President Trump and his administration have been constantly complaining and fighting against what they call the "Woke agenda". They use this excuse as a distraction from other issues they refuse to address, such as the high cost of living, climate change, and inflation. That equality is dividing America, when in reality, it's bringing us together. Being woke is not tied to a specific political party. No matter where you stand on the political spectrum, you can still care about other people and their plights. Compassion and empathy for others isn't tied to a political party, either. We were taught as children to treat others the way we want to be treated and not judge others because they're different from us. Caring about others isn't a personal attack on your beliefs. It doesn't make you any less of a person. People who are easily offended over African American figures, past or present, or anything related to it, are grasping at straws. Current and future generations need to know who people like Harriet Tubman and Shirley Chisholm were, especially in the classroom. Black History is part of American History. It should be recognized, not hidden or forgotten. Besides, you can't shield children from everything, just because your feelings are easily hurt.
By Mark Wesley Pritchard 4 days ago in The Swamp
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Hey
Sending hugs and comfort for your sadness