Poetry
Button
#0
The sun shone brightly on the small button-shaped face of the newborn. “Sun is good for them in their first 40 days,” they said. Her eyes wrinkle under the loving strokes of the sun. She squirms, tossing her arms around, either showing displeasure or deep comfort. “She truly is the Daughter of the Sun, is she not?” The woman smiled.
“Eliana. My daughter, my light, Eliana.”
Dear reader,
The Sun may be the
Only one
Who doth not know
Me.
#1
Eliana is learning to walk. She falls, she gets up, she falls again, pressing the repeat button. And yet, her smile remains. It seems that she will never give up.
The past few weeks, she has been embraced by her family—all of her cousins and aunts and uncles came to visit her down South. She has never experienced this much human exposure. Nonetheless, she enjoys the interactions, it is thought. She even mumbles emoted, yet vaguely understood, words in her fierce and loving nature. The corner of Mom’s lips raise into a smile at the attempt.
Dear reader,
Let us not forget,
Mom
Carries the weight of the world
On her shoulders
Because of me?
#2
“It’s crazy to think she’s talking now!” Mom tells her friends, as Eliana walks circles around their dining room table. Clap, slap, clap, slap, boom. An onomatopoeia of a child’s happiness. “I’m two!” she gleefully yells, as if terrible twos are nothing but a slight inconvenience to her, akin an extra button undoing itself on Dad’s shirt.
Dear reader,
My first encounter
With you will
Undeniably
Be brief.
#6
“Let’s celebrate her last summer of complete childhood.” Wine happily poured, Eliana looks at the adults and wonders, “What awaits me in the adult life?”
She has heard her Dad speak of the seriousness of school, yet she does not know whether she should expect to like it, hate it—maybe both. New emotions, her body freezes, fear trickling down her arm.
Escapism is limited to her favorite dolls in the dollhouse, she knows not yet of hurt other than those few friendly quarrels with the girl next door.
Dear reader,
It saddens me to know,
I am not awaited, nor am I welcome.
#7
“Kid, are you happy at all?” Dad laughs after picking Eliana up on May 31st, the last day of school and the beginning of the break. “NO!” she wails. “Let’s push your happiness button,” he says as he giddily tickles at her sides. She musters a smile. “I’m Dad’s favorite button!”
Dear reader,
We shall meet soon.
#12
This is the first summer Eliana spends in contemplation of her adulthood. With new changes in her physiology, pools become a questionable choice—so do her favorite white clothes (though she always finds a way to make them off-white, if she has the slightest chance).
“Ugh, is there no cure to being a woman?” she asks once, on a low from the painkillers, hands clutched over her stomach as the cramps fight a battle within her. I wish there were a button to stop this.
Dear reader,
You may know me,
Lurking in the corner of your room
Watching -
Patiently -
Painfully -
Watching.
#14
Eliana: the one with locks of pure gold weaving her shoulders, the one with skin akin to the cleanest sand upon a royal beach, whose hours melt into days melt into weeks. Doom scrolling. Brevity of interaction. Locked in a room with the key in the wrong hands, her control switched off.
Dear reader,
My hands, indeed, feign comfort
And drain your life away from you.
#15
It hurts, oh, how it hurts, when for the first time, you realize you have left your heart for the taking. Left it to be used, left it to be broken.
“Eliana, sweetheart, do you need anything?” Mom comes by to ask.
“Eliana, darling, are you doing alright?”
Eliana ignores the comment. Dad sits by the bed.
“Should I press the button… for your giggly-pies?” He lovingly snickers, but trails off into the silence when he receives nothing in reply. He stands, slowly leaving the room, looking back a final time, and closing the door softly behind him.
Dear reader,
Oh, how I know you wish —
Perhaps, so do I —
That I can come and go,
Like a Button.
#18
Dear reader,
I’m afraid –
Age doth not make
Me
Younger or older.
You may call me
A murderer
Of hearts and deepest passions
A useless butto
A kill switch.
But really
Who am I if not
The one who comes from the past?
I am not more
A ghost
A memory
A wish
A dream —
As I am a nightmare.
“A human experiences an average of 72 summers in their lifetime. So why do I feel like my summers are over?”
The sun shone brightly on the small button-shaped face of the newborn. “Sun is good for them in their first 40 days,” they said. Her eyes wrinkle under the loving strokes of the sun. She squirms, tossing her arms around, either showing displeasure or deep comfort. “She truly is the Daughter of the Sun, is she not?” The woman smiled.
“Eliana. My daughter, my light, Eliana.”
Dear reader,
The Sun may be the
Only one
Who doth not know
Me.
#1
Eliana is learning to walk. She falls, she gets up, she falls again, pressing the repeat button. And yet, her smile remains. It seems that she will never give up.
The past few weeks, she has been embraced by her family—all of her cousins and aunts and uncles came to visit her down South. She has never experienced this much human exposure. Nonetheless, she enjoys the interactions, it is thought. She even mumbles emoted, yet vaguely understood, words in her fierce and loving nature. The corner of Mom’s lips raise into a smile at the attempt.
Dear reader,
Let us not forget,
Mom
Carries the weight of the world
On her shoulders
Because of me?
#2
“It’s crazy to think she’s talking now!” Mom tells her friends, as Eliana walks circles around their dining room table. Clap, slap, clap, slap, boom. An onomatopoeia of a child’s happiness. “I’m two!” she gleefully yells, as if terrible twos are nothing but a slight inconvenience to her, akin an extra button undoing itself on Dad’s shirt.
Dear reader,
My first encounter
With you will
Undeniably
Be brief.
#6
“Let’s celebrate her last summer of complete childhood.” Wine happily poured, Eliana looks at the adults and wonders, “What awaits me in the adult life?”
She has heard her Dad speak of the seriousness of school, yet she does not know whether she should expect to like it, hate it—maybe both. New emotions, her body freezes, fear trickling down her arm.
Escapism is limited to her favorite dolls in the dollhouse, she knows not yet of hurt other than those few friendly quarrels with the girl next door.
Dear reader,
It saddens me to know,
I am not awaited, nor am I welcome.
#7
“Kid, are you happy at all?” Dad laughs after picking Eliana up on May 31st, the last day of school and the beginning of the break. “NO!” she wails. “Let’s push your happiness button,” he says as he giddily tickles at her sides. She musters a smile. “I’m Dad’s favorite button!”
Dear reader,
We shall meet soon.
#12
This is the first summer Eliana spends in contemplation of her adulthood. With new changes in her physiology, pools become a questionable choice—so do her favorite white clothes (though she always finds a way to make them off-white, if she has the slightest chance).
“Ugh, is there no cure to being a woman?” she asks once, on a low from the painkillers, hands clutched over her stomach as the cramps fight a battle within her. I wish there were a button to stop this.
Dear reader,
You may know me,
Lurking in the corner of your room
Watching -
Patiently -
Painfully -
Watching.
#14
Eliana: the one with locks of pure gold weaving her shoulders, the one with skin akin to the cleanest sand upon a royal beach, whose hours melt into days melt into weeks. Doom scrolling. Brevity of interaction. Locked in a room with the key in the wrong hands, her control switched off.
Dear reader,
My hands, indeed, feign comfort
And drain your life away from you.
#15
It hurts, oh, how it hurts, when for the first time, you realize you have left your heart for the taking. Left it to be used, left it to be broken.
“Eliana, sweetheart, do you need anything?” Mom comes by to ask.
“Eliana, darling, are you doing alright?”
Eliana ignores the comment. Dad sits by the bed.
“Should I press the button… for your giggly-pies?” He lovingly snickers, but trails off into the silence when he receives nothing in reply. He stands, slowly leaving the room, looking back a final time, and closing the door softly behind him.
Dear reader,
Oh, how I know you wish —
Perhaps, so do I —
That I can come and go,
Like a Button.
#18
Dear reader,
I’m afraid –
Age doth not make
Me
Younger or older.
You may call me
A murderer
Of hearts and deepest passions
A useless butto
A kill switch.
But really
Who am I if not
The one who comes from the past?
I am not more
A ghost
A memory
A wish
A dream —
As I am a nightmare.
“A human experiences an average of 72 summers in their lifetime. So why do I feel like my summers are over?”