
POETRY
These are the collection of poems that I have written over the course of my English: Creative Writing career thus far, for classes including Intro to Creative Writing: Poetry and Advanced Creative Writing.
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carpet burn
carpet burn
by sophie winston
sometimes i stand in the ghosted road outside my house when it’s
brushed with licks of moonlight and the burnt caramel glow
of the street lights standing tall and daunting like brooding
watchmen who see everything. when the only thing that
engulfs me is the whispers of leaves to my either side. i stand
in the middle of the two lanes, looking ahead as leftover heat from the day
rises and i let the humid air encompass me as well as the darkness
surrounding me and the emanating green light as it switches to
red, with no one to stop but me and i don’t. i let my feet keep padding, still
not moving aside, pacing the black top along the stark yellow lines while
pebbles stick and bite my bare feet on the ground where earlier i walked and
men called out their windows. whose words about the way my skin
and sinew curves over my bones stuck to my skin like
thick oil paint months dried itchy and crusty as the
syllables that poured out of their chapped lips onto to my supple
skin feeling like a full body carpet burn smeared with dirt that will never
leave. the filth stays no matter if it rains and i walk down the path outside
my house where the cool water soothes my peeling skin with its gentle
touch and washes away my thoughts but not the dirt as
i stand there the sounds the words don’t go away
no matter if i sleep with my eyes squeezed tight and my ears
plugged with wax or stand in the road when all is quiet and empty, with
no one to stop but me and i don’t i keep going until
night comes again and i pray for the moons soft tongue and
the rain to soothe me of my wounds.

fleeting


Armor
Armor
By Sophie Winston
I’ve always tried to match my shirt to my skin
the way my great grandmother did, with
hands like crushed velvet left out in the sun
for so long, it wears it in with its rays’ slow strokes
and the sweet air’s gentle touch until it’s
warm, glinting in the light, youthful and smooth.
I’ve always tried to match my shirt to my skin
the way my great grandmother did, with
a face that glows golden as honey scooped
from the comb but dressed in armor just the same.
Maybe not of iron or bronze but stronger:
the furs she always had drip over her shoulders from
the stand her husband owned on the corner
of the damp New York streets, when all she had
was her silky skin and the weight of so many
curled up on the cricks in her neck, beautiful
but heavy.
I’ve always tried to match my shirt to my skin
the way my great grandmother did. Armor
disguised by plush and fur, the delicateness
of her skin on yours-- the metal of her skin invisible
to those who feel her caresses or brush her in passing,
but still there.

To not feel haunted at night
To not feel haunted at night
must be like warm honey and apples: lucky
and sticky on your fingers until
you suck them clean
with a smile, all cheeks and tongue
before lying back to bed, linen and lovers
sticking to your palms as you reach
to find flesh and dreaming lips.
For the rest of us, we lie besides ghosts
whose cool hands sink through our skin
trying to anchor but slipping through, in the uneasy way
that you feel spindly legs crawling up your back, shaking
out your clothes to find nothing but
skin and beads of sweat.
I know all too well the hollow
feeling of standing on the deck of
my house at night, alone, besides
the whispers of fingernails painted blue
running up the inside of my wrist, alongside
a breath of indecision as I ponder
whether the hand is mine
or the memory of another.
I gaze up, here in my bed, and
feel the air whoosh around the walls
breathing laughs of ice, like the plane of it we fell
on when the blades on our shoes
gave out in a tumble--
I hear it, our bodies colliding, but
I can’t see your eyes, your teeth a blur:
Translucent and cold and gone. The silence and
stillness as it sits stale and expiring, but
doesn’t fall into me-- as
you don’t fall into me-- but only
the chill as it settles into my feet
until they carry me back outside to
the deck of hollow souls, empty hands
and soft breezes across one's neck.
Spooky, isn’t it, how the ghosts
who won’t ever really see me
are the only ones
who have?

Us, Where you Stained My Skin
Us, Where You Stained My Skin
Every morning the sky laughs--
big belly laughs, as it looks down at you
and at me, covered in the glitter left on my body from your hands.
Twinkling lights that are there from your skin, but
I can’t seem to see any on you, just on me.
How did you do this, I ask, I don’t understand, from
wherever you touched my flesh, I glow.
But never mind-- is it clay that I see? From the mud you use to sculpt your beautiful pots
and me?
No, not me. For I am more than you
no matter the words you try to say, all the I belong to you’s
and the seduction--
Maybe that is where the glitter is from:
the words of silk and thick tongue that you used to lick across my body
that made my heart burn up into flames like the wildfires we
saw in Montana where the trees bent around us
because you asked them to.
You asked them because
you knew it would make me smile-- all those bending trees that moved just for me.
Every morning the sky laughs--
And now I see why, as the sparkles won’t come off
no matter if I rub with dish soap and oils.
The glitter that you put on me, when I was facing away
when I was unaware of all that you left behind
on me.
I would laugh too, if I were the sun watching a girl get
painted and coated in such a way.
The sky probably would have stayed too, would
have been unable to cleanse its skin if it knew you.
I remember meeting you, the colors of your eyes like
blue bells and lips the color of a lady bug’s wings, speaking words that tasted
like maple syrup.
The sky probably would have stayed too--
After seeing such a thing, after all the glitter
and lovely mugs you made fresh with your hands for me to sip hot water and honey
when my throat felt parched.
Just for me, but not really,
Because the glitter might be beautiful
Like your eyes and calloused hands,
but your words turned from honeysuckle to squid ink--
poisonous and permanent.
Now my skin is covered in your shine but darkened.
My own twinkle snuffed out by the fumes of you
and the syllables that left your lips and stained my heart.
After I realized you only bent the trees
for you, because you could. Only made me mugs
for my tea and parched throat because it made
my heart tilt and shift at your will
just like those trees back in the redwoods
all those months ago.
Every morning the sky laughs,
And I cry for the days of soft lips and notes of flowers:
A time where my skin only shone from the sun's beams and
the fairness of my complexion.

the walls

The Rings I Wear

