Poetry, Audrey Nguyen
stretched out in the air, the smoke is aware of me
but i am unsure... ...and unrendered
my future remains a teenage girl
performative and capricious
something to fixate on but never understood
a spectacle wrapped in curtains
maybe parafilm
maybe my back, leaf skin and sliced
a flower that only blooms behind
closed eyes
when my boss says she’s paranoid i don’t doubt her
stare at something for too long and it will start
to stain the walls until you can’t believe your eyes
and have to close them to feel
less haunted
like sleeping, like dreaming
a lot happens during unconsciousness
reset to functionality and
the silent predictions and
the omens
mind alive only when blinded
but erased when you wake
nobody likes surveillance
nothing natural happens when observed
even light
its split behaviors dance for the instruments
still we persist (anxiously)
the suspense of what's to come is shyly killing time
and we are holding the knife
face up to the ceiling for a vision of something
we just can’t see through
the smoke on my eyes is makeup and
maybe our control attempts are inherently flawed
we don’t see the point because we keep looking at/for it
maybe it changes colors when we look away
Audrey Nguyen is a writer, poet, and versatile creative presently based in Canada. As a current PhD candidate in Biochemistry, she enjoys finding the artistic in science, and the scientific in art. Her poetry is often philosophical and instinctive, exploring themes of identity, loss, and turbulence in navigating the modern, internet-based world, with a dash of her life science background here and there. She feels intensely, and writes intensely to make people feel. Find Audrey on Instagram at @au.noia
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