Melanie Lau

i find stories in everything

[mellylau]

as the first warm day after winter

you would not believe that i love, but i do

i love  the purple-lined clovers and crushed acorn shells

the cracked mud of the dry lakebed, leaves once frozen now translucent as cobwebs

the wrinkled grass a bed for bugs and squirrels and geese

the sun, how she dips like a lover who does not wish to leave yet, how her pining paints the tree trunks ochre

and i love the people

the children who scheme, practice mimicry waddle and honk and imagine flight

the boy who lets himself have  the simple pleasure of my sunshine, peach  at the high points of his cheeks

the old man who strums tender notes, quarters dropped as wishes in his guitar case

the young woman who dips her toes  into the stones and twigs, makes sanctity of the willow’s shade, studies the shifting curtain of  pale green, a dance

listen to me as  i metamorphose, my amber wings  now  saturated in misty blue

listen to me

there is so much good around

love as i do with your heart pumping wind and your head big and bright and your kind words sprawling as flowers in a field

[mellylau]

daughters of Asteria

we are night- born, women of mystique mystical entities, divine

we read spells under moonshine,  establishing order  out of celestial chaos we are dust and rock afire,  scorching heat and  buoyant energy and  fervent blaze

we are daughters of daughters of daughters of Asteria a long line of deities,  made in the memory of our titaness but we have each our own power, our own pair of hands to weave stars into constellations and this is why your mortal sky is asymmetrical  and this is why no star is the same

we are the women of your dreams we are the women of your wishes upon a shooting star

behold

it takes a woman to master black magic it takes a woman to understand the universe and her throes it takes a woman to tame the cosmos

[geminus]

💌 slightly weird question but do you have any blog recs?

hell yeah 😎in no particular order and with no organization whatsoever:

@ragewrites @syringavulgaris @motherfolker @bloomingtrans @avolitorial @mothcub @soracities @sollozas @mellylau @kibberswrites @gladiiola @unsnarled @trueka @monolidd @aestronautics @fureal @animauxing @paradjse @oozins @asoftwrongness @hkpeach 

[mellylau]

Thanks @etteamor​ !!! <3

[mellylau]

night creatures

the beach after sun- set is unearthly, a time when night creatures rule

[mellylau]

pumpkin head

black to brownish, brownish to blondish. box bleach, its powdery blue hue and  chemical stink, washed down the shower drain.

no one in the bathroom, neither me nor my fourteen-year-old cousin, was an expert. we smeared dye on thick ropes of my hair, our clumsy hands staining coral onto the counter.

I emerged from the shower, hair stringy and dripping. my foggy reflection revealed: a bad dye job, a waterfall of the wrong colors. my cousin couldn’t help but laugh.

I swept a hand through my hair. tangerine tangled between my fingers. all at once, I was devastated and delighted.

[mellylau]

zoom date

the long distance feels dystopian and I didn’t realize that losing touch meant losing a way to talk to you

certain quirks of a zoom call:

the scratch of static

your voice trailing behind you like the tail of a kite

that feeling of stretching on your tip-toes, something’s just out of your grasp (this is the best way we can reach for each other right now)

you can’t get me started on what I daydream because “if you were here” makes me sharp-set and gluttonous

certain quirks of when we’re in the same room:

my lips pressed to the inner corner of your closed eye

your stomach, your neck: much to nuzzle

that feeling of seeing a baby goat sit in plush grass, everything is right about this image

I don’t want us to feel like we’re waiting so just keep the kiss in the back of your mind the one I will give you when the world’s ending ends and it will feel like [watermelon comes back into season] [the summer has been hot and dry and cruel to us all]  [you take that sweet bite after so long, after so much longing]

the long distance feels like we’re doing our best

your voice comes through the earphones, tinny and stilted I know you’re there, and that’s more than enough

[wildgherkins]

soar

these wings are a patchwork: made of leaves, flowers, thorns, acrylic, epoxy, wood glue, tanned hide, mycelium, and corrugated steel. last night, i stood on a high riverbank held your hand, and asked that you look for me, incandescent against the stars. (15 April 2020)

[mellylau]

turnips (animal crossing: new horizons)

they don’t buy turnips on sundays— timmy and tommy—those conniving cohorts.

you bought big bundles of turnips at a high price. (daisy mae was charming, balancing that basket atop her head, taking over gram-gram joan’s business, that lovable orange boar. the turnips were shiny and white and wearing happy leaf hats.)

you are haughty, you are confident, you want money.

through the week, they offer you deals that you don’t want to take. you visit the twins each day, and tommy echoes timmy, “133 Bells per turnip.” but you aren’t playing games, you want to make bank. that price should near 200.

but it’s the next sunday. you waited too long. the turnips have rotted, and they are worth only the bugs which buzz about them. and this is how you learn that the economy is unfair.

because you took a gamble, you wanted to con those turnip-obsessed twins, but timmy and tommy tell you the same thing every week: they don’t buy turnips on sundays.

you should’ve been smarter.

[mellylau]

lilies, sweet peas, & snapdragons

dearest,

paper clippings slip out of  a baby blue envelope, and my chest warms.

you gift me my favorite: words, snippets, the possibility of stories.

we are hidden here: we are struggle, the torn edges of tape. we are sweet, colors and compliments and comical love. we are the sensual sprawl of nature, lilies, sweet peas, & snapdragons.

you send these words from afar, and “I miss [your] chaos” but I see you—the pretty parts of nature— in the flowers that sprout in between the sidewalks.

we are women of floriculture.

I’ve planted the seeds that you’ve sent into this page, and gardens will grow, grow, grow from my diary.

[mellylau]

what hurts about being home

from my balcony, I see all that I cannot embrace: the mountain, the ocean, and the city. even the sky tempts me, so achingly blue.

but home stands stock-still. fresh air will ribbon-twirl about me  when I return to the outdoors. everyday, I recognize and remember what waiting will do.

[mellylau]

the sting of empathy

my heart broke for you

how intimate it was for us to bleed together

is it dangerous for me —to feel your pain as mine? —to choke on your shallow breath? —to call you my heart?

if i could kiss you, i would lick the salt off your lips, i would swallow this hurt

you tell me not to worry but how could i not when i feel you like this, when our love is sensate

[mellylau]

euphoria

/yo͞oˈfôrēə/ (noun) black magic moonlight so good it hurts, it haunts, i am skeptical, i am sober i am brazenly afraid about the orange at the edges, the earthquake earth my shaking body dislocates yours, and the epicenter of this experience is my choked throat i am under spell and i need to know how the sheer power has not killed me yet when you have pierced my heart a million times

[mellylau]

10 happy memories

1. In an American Eagle dressing room (a place of pure shame and repulsion), Jodi said my stretch marks looked like battle scars.

2. Last summer, I worked the worst job I ever had. It was so high intensity, it gave me anxiety attacks. One day, I wore a red shirt, blue jeans, and white shoes to work. My coworker called me Supergirl, and I smiled.

3. In Jack’s dorm room, we watched Brooklyn Nine-Nine until we started to fall asleep on each other. When I moved to leave, his head fell to my stomach. I let him lay there for a moment too long to be platonic.

4. I pulled pants over my sleep shorts to run outside. Snow drifted down like small stars from the high night sky. 

5. I stood under an umbrella as it poured in Berlin, listening to music on my phone. The symphony swelled, and I sobbed in the middle of a moss garden, shoes submerged in puddles. Wild Flower by Park Hyo Shin is hauntingly beautiful paired with the sound of rain.

6. Mom screamed at my brother, “Anthony, don’t eat pistachios on my bed!” His frightened figure, like a squirrel caught cramming nuts in its cheeks, made me laugh so hard I could never forget that quote.

7. High school softball tanned me to orange and bruised me like a banana, but four hour practices made me feel at peak health. I was awed at my body for being so agile, even if I wasn’t great at catching fly balls.

8. A milk tea place down my street serves mini boba. The first time I tried them, I loved how they jettisoned into my mouth like hot tub bubbles.

9. I didn’t seek it out, but Ms. Naks offered me the student government position. She said she was confident in me, and I suddenly felt like a leader, like it was comfortable to keep my shoulders back, head up.

10. I couldn’t get a date to senior prom, so I took my best friend Zoe instead. I wore a grape purple cocktail dress with eyeshadow to match, and dangly clip-on earrings. I felt festooned. Zoe wore a pink picnic dress and pretty lip gloss. We danced and jumped and laughed the night away. Our feet didn’t even hurt in our heels.

[mellylau]

Monna Vanna

She’s here. She sits tall, one hand enveloping the other. Her body is turned away, but she looks directly at me, coy. Her silver skin glints against the charcoal background. She knows something about me, but she thrives off of secrets, with her half-smile, with her wide eyes alight. 

She’s here in the Condé Museum, and I’ve been ready for her. Monna Vanna. She is colorless, a portrait in gray. A student of da Vinci drew her, my flawless woman, her hair in a braided updo to show her oval face.

She is ethereal. The lazy fall of tule across her lap makes her seem fragile, a lady of thin, fine fabrics. And she is topless, bearing her breasts. With one eye closed, I position my hand in front of my face. My thumb falls right over her nipple. I know not to actually touch her. I learned my lesson after the Louvre. My true love, Mona Lisa, was there. My Mona Lisa could have fit in my bag. She was smaller than one would expect. When I kissed her, an alarm sounded. My arms were pulled behind my back, wrists cuffed immediately. Mona Lisa watched me as I left, as security wrenched me out of the room. My entire body pulsed with love.

I will never see my Mona Lisa again, but Monna Vanna is like her sister. Naked, waiting. She stares at me, she knows I want her, but I can’t have her. Monna Vanna. Monna Vanna, would you touch me? Would you leave silver handprints on my back, my ass? I bring my hand down and gaze at her, none of her parts covered. The need to resist only fuels my desire to give in. 

[mellylau]

why i write: conversations over lemon squares

i.  I write to lose myself for an hour or two. I speak to myself, in my head, all day long. I would like to have a conversation with someone else. A young girl from the 1820s. A sea dragon in the Pacific Ocean. An alien hiding away on Pluto. I write for the possibilities, for the freedom. I can explore anything and everything. I write to dream big. To project ideas onto the sky; it is why thought bubbles are the shape of clouds. I write to ground my ideas, to lasso them from the heights, and tie them to paper.

ii. I write to put things in order. I think in random words. They are like ingredients, strewn across the kitchen counter, unmeasured. I write to spill flour on my clothes, squeeze lemon juice in my eyes, lick dough off the mixer. I write to suffer, but after I suffer, I make lemon squares; all stories can be just like lemon squares, sweet, sour. I write to satisfy hunger, to feed and be fed, to bake and take lemon squares until I am full.

[mellylau]

Skin-tight

I place my hand against yours. Your fingers are thinning. You don’t  want to obsess anymore. And you  don’t. You don’t obsess like before.

But

I don’t like to look at my fingers. I lose pride in myself every time I take a bite. 

Pancakes  stacked  high in the dining hall this semester, and I hate to love temptation.

I hate my fall from grace. 

I tell you not to follow my lead, to love your vessel, my vessel, all the same.

We both used to stand on the same scale counting carbs on one hand.

But you hug my body like a one-piece. You want me to listen to Love this time. Really try.

We drop our hands. We are in my bathroom. You write “I am good” in Sharpie on my back, use my stretch marks as guidelines like writing in a diary.

You became my sister when you told me you hated your stomach.

You became my savior when you told me you love your everything now. That  your stomach is not skin-tight yet, but your stomach is part of something good.

We are naked. 

And I am exposed to someone who gets it, who fears this. We take a picture in the mirror. It looks good, you say,  you swear.

I take a look. Lovely. Because your belly looks full. Because you’re smiling.

[mellylau]

flamenco

in those long-hanging notes of a twelve string guitar, i found my fire