Red Lights, Green Lights, (all the way through)

Red Lights, Green Lights, (all the way through)

Run red lights, run green, run through

streets lined with mirrors falling apart.

Kids swing bats in these streets with frowns.

But the day is yours for the taking,

if only to see how far it can go.

If only to see the other side of the sun.

But muddy makeup kits can conceal the sun

from shining through.

and those kids with bats take you apart

wherever you go.

You could never stand to slide down their frowns

though the day was yours for the taking.

And you found yourself always doing the taking,

always seeing, but never sharing the sun.

You must share the sun before you go–

before you run all the way through–

red lights, green lights, mirrors falling apart.

Did you look? Did you see their frowns?

They wear them like gowns, their frowns.

Like nights of prom picture taking.

Dress up in them quickly, on they go,

brazen and bold like the sun.

Tripping and teasing they run all the way through–

scraping knees and cheeks, they fall apart.

On the concrete of the streets, torn apart

by poorly placed highways and frowns–

Red, green, lights run through

casting rays of flashing light like the sun.

Still, the day is yours for the taking.

On you go.

On you go

Like the concrete of the streets, torn apart.

Dancing like a maniac in light of their frowns.

Singing like a soldier in light of the sun.

Still, you are mine for the taking,

for the running of lights all the way through.

Taking apart their frowns

they fall into the sun.

They go running red lights, green lights, all the way through.

I Am Awake

I Am Awake

I am awake
In more ways than one
To the fact that you’re still white
As much as I want you to be
As much as I don’t want you to be

To the fact that your eyes are still dimmed
That it takes time to go back to the beginning
Go forward to the beginning

To the fact that you are just like them
That you are so different, or at least wanting to be
But wanting is not enough
And apologies are the only way to realize this
But apologies are not enough
And speaking them is the only way to realize this

To the fact that you still don’t see me
Don’t hear me
And maybe don’t want to
Though you say different
ly with your words

To the fact that I’m still not pale enough to be trusted
above those who are enough pale
Even when I’m right
Even when I’m wrong

I am awake
In more ways than one
To the fact that you’re still white
That you’re always going to be
That you don’t always have to be

Payback’s a Bitch

Payback’s a Bitch
by Amaryah Armstrong

I could still see her limp body, shapeless in my favorite recliner. The sheer black pantyhose around her neck were slack now, but I felt as if I could see those gloved hands coming out of the past and pulling her pretty face taut into an exaggerated reflection. Her large almond eyes bulged from her head like her eyes were being forced out of their sockets by a pressure from behind. Her full lips were open, slouching at the corners like her shoulders underneath that scratchy gray winter coat she wore with the holes in the pockets. I still remember wondering how her dark brown skin, that once gleamed like polished cherry wood, could look so dull and pale.
It was hard to remember the gleaming ring on her left hand, knowing what we had been hoping to celebrate in the upcoming weeks. A wedding, a future, a dream, all forgotten now and replaced with funerals and investigations.
The detectives had questioned anyone they could. Her family, her fiancée, her friends. It was an unexpected tragedy, but I certainly couldn’t offer them much help even though I was the one who had found her.  I felt I was just as in the dark as everyone else. My hands shook a lot during that meeting, and I knocked my bottled water over. I never liked cops even though I’d never actually talked to one before her death. But from watching shows like Law and Order, they always seemed intimidating and sneaky. Detective Parsons was nice enough, though. He kept telling me they didn’t really think I was involved, but they had to cover their bases. My head ached a lot after they questioned me, so I took some Advil and went to sleep. It was hard to sleep in my bed though, not having her body beside, but imagining her body in my favorite recliner, instead. I wanted to sit in my favorite recliner and let the television lull me off into a painless slumber, but I was afraid to now that the seat was haunted by her broken body.

When I awoke, I felt just as tired as I had before I slept.

The screeching was in my ears before I knew what had happened. My hands went to my ears automatically, shielding them from the silence that penetrated my skin. Fuck. Fucking shit. I pushed the covers back, sliding out of bed and onto the cold carpet. It was unusual feeling the pricking of the floor, cold as ice, like dipping my feet in a tub of freezing water. I made a pained hobble towards the living room and felt exhausted as I leaned into the entryway exhaling as if I’d just traversed a mountain trail. Shit.
The recliner stared at me from across the room.
It was rocking.
Slowly.

I sucked up all the air in the room and held it in my mouth. A chilling burst of wind shot through the window and I looked to the left, catching the curtain tumbling and waving. I slowly released my breath back into the atmosphere, hobbled over to the window and took in the fresh night air. The staleness of my apartment was leaving a bad taste in my mouth. My hands shook at my side and I placed them on the sill, leaning out of the window. The stars smiled at me, or maybe they frowned. But either way there was blackness in between, and there was she and I and we wrapped in the blanket of night, and my hands pulling the pantyhose tighter around her neck, and her fingernails reaching up, clawing at my leather jacket. The gurgling of her last breath met my ears like the final resounding note of a symphony, clear and sustained. And I stared out of my Harlem window, becoming peaceful with every step taken towards the night sky, even if it was just in my head.

And then it wasn’t just in my head, and for a second I was in the night sky, wrapped up in the sky with her arms around me and pantyhose around her neck, both of us in the sky, writhing and dancing like we would do sometimes to our favorite songs. And then I was plummeting towards the ground, tumbling down the stories of Harlem’s high rise, knocking my head against invisible stairs and bringing neighbors I’d never seen before to their balconies, cheering and applauding my final act. I smiled as my body connected with the concrete and crumpled me with its fist.

I smiled up at the window where she leaned out, waving.

Payback’s a bitch and I couldn’t even wave back to her.

So I laid there and smiled up at the night sky littered with she and I and we and blackness and everything in between her face stuck in that Harlem window.

I Guess

I guess it would be truthful
Though maybe not so safe
To say what I am feeling
To rest inside this place

I guess it would be honest
Though full of righteous fear
To break down all these walls I’ve built
And try to let you near

I guess I could be open
But it seems I’m still the same
Afraid to have my heart pierced
Afraid of being brave

I’m guessing I could try
I’m guessing I would fail
For with love I am fearful
Of having hurt prevail

I guessed, and am still guessing
Of what to do with this
This longing to be held and known
And wanting to be kissed

I guess.

I do wonder sometimes…

I do wish.

I do need this.

I guess that I could cry now
Though tears are not my thing
Except that they are mine
And freedom lies in owning pain

I guess that I could heal
If first I let me hurt
Maybe one day I’ll reach out
And let myself be burnt

Rememories

Here’s a short story I started this spring and just finished today.

Enjoy.

Rememories
by Amaryah Armstrong

Fireflies jumped across the creek with reckless laughter, leading the way to a better view of the night sky. Kate and I were right on their tails, following them with large glass jars we said were to catch them in when really we enjoyed the chase more than the capture. I could barely keep up with Kate, though. Her legs were long and slender and I was what my mom liked to call “pleasantly plump”. But I still had fun chasing fireflies across the creek and on through damp spongy grass that splooshed and sunk beneath our sneakers until we reached the base of our favorite hill. It was our favorite hill because of things that had happened on and around that hill and not so much because of anything particularly interesting about the hill, although it was good for rolling down.
Lots of good things happen on this hill. Kate and I have lots of good talks here, for one, mostly about boys we like and how our younger siblings get on our nerves and our older siblings are bossy. We’re both stuck right in the middle of our families so we get each other. My mom says we’re heart sisters, or something like that, but I think Kate’s just my best friend even if I do like her more than my sisters. For two, I always end up watching the best sunsets from the top of the hill. One evening it looked like puffs of clouds were cotton balls that had been dipped in lilacs and burnt oranges with a strip of midnight blue cutting straight through all of them. I liked that. It made me sit still, and I felt warm like someone had draped a blanket over my shoulders.
Then there was the time Kate and I met Atticus on top of the hill. It was noon and nice and toasty so Kate and I decided to lay around on top of our hill. We could lay around because it was Saturday and we had already finished our chores. At first Kate was afraid of Atticus because he was a little dirty, but I thought he had nice eyes. They sparkled and sang like my mom when she’s doing the dishes, except my mom must not know how irritating washing dishes is or else how could she be so happy about it? I don’t know, but I do know that Kate was afraid and I wasn’t. I was brave. Brave enough to walk up to Atticus and ask him what he was doing on our hill. Atticus had dark brown skin that was creased and wrinkled, especially in his forehead and around his eyes, and I wondered how somebody could get so many wrinkles in their face. But then he laughed, and it was the biggest, heartiest laugh I had ever heard. It carried on like a rolling drum, a deep booming expanse of sound that held on to me like my baby sister’s infant hand wrapping around my index finger—with all of its strength. Once he laughed, I knew how he’d gotten his wrinkles, and it just made me like him even more. He looked like he might have been as old as my dad, but I wasn’t sure because he smiled like he was younger. With all his teeth bared, crooked and yellowed as they were, they still gleamed like the sun at noon that day.
Atticus was carrying a purple balloon, the kind of purple that I think is really disgusting because it is so deeply purple. It looks like grape children’s medicine, and I hate children’s medicine. Atticus’ Benadryl flavored balloon kept rippling in the wind beside his head, but he held on to it as if it wasn’t really there. The ribbon attached to the balloon wove around his fingers loosely, his knuckles staring pointedly from the loose fist he made. I wondered how a grown man could not feel self conscious standing there with a purple balloon. I know I feel self conscious when I’m just standing in a group of people who I don’t think really like me, yet here Atticus was, standing in front of two 12-year-old girls he didn’t know, with a purple balloon, a huge grin, and pulsing laughter.
“How’d you get the balloon?” I perked up the courage to ask and he raised an eyebrow, looking at me intensely with his dark brown eyes that shone like pebbles just pulled from a creek. I was tempted to look away for a second, but then that brave feeling in my belly told me to hold his gaze, so I did. I didn’t expect him to talk, I don’t know why, so when he did it caught me off guard. His voice was low and clear. It sounded like the stillness of the nighttime in its clarity and the constant deep rumbling I hear when I’m listening underwater.
“I got it from a birthday party.” He said, slowly and with a gentle nod of his head.
“Was it your party?” I asked. He looked at me and said,
“No, but it should have been.” I didn’t understand what he meant by that.
“Did you steal it?” Kate piped up from beside me. It was the first words she had spoken to Atticus all day. I was a little mad at her that she asked if he stole the balloon. It sounded like something rude my mom would pinch me for saying.
Atticus looked at Kate with a more interrogating look than he had yet given me, and I think she became a little frightened. But Atticus just turned to face the horizon once more and spoke again in his steady voice, “I reckon I know not to take what doesn’t belong to me.” I wasn’t sure if he was offended, but if he was, he sure didn’t look it. His face was serene and seemed content to let the slight breeze slide across his face. In the breeze I could pick up his scent. He smelled like outdoors, the smell of tree bark mingling with his own natural musk. He smelled like the woods and nature. He smelled like freedom.
I’m not sure why I remember that day so clearly, maybe it is because Atticus was so memorable. Or maybe it was because after Kate and I had met Atticus that day, after we’d finished interrogating him about his balloon, after we’d stopped being afraid of strangers, we walked home and Kate told me she would see me later, and I walked into my house and found my mom sitting at the kitchen table crying. Maybe I remember that day so well because when something good happens before something terrible it always feels better to remember the taste of the good thing instead of the bad thing. So, I remember Atticus and his purple balloon and that weird conversation instead of remembering those three weeks when my daddy went away to “find himself,” because there was lots of crying and yelling during those three weeks and my sister wouldn’t leave me alone, and my mom couldn’t cook dinner, and I was tired of being sad.
During those three weeks when my daddy went away, I tried to spend as much time at Kate’s as I could, ’cause I didn’t want to have to think about his car not being in the driveway or his smell not being in the house or his clothes not being in the baskets of laundry my mom would bring into the living room and tell us kids to fold. During those three weeks Kate and I would sit in her room and paint our nails, but sometimes we did things that weren’t girly, like wrestle or play with her brother’s action figure. Her mom didn’t like it when we did things that boys do so we usually stuck to doing things that girls do. I wish being a girl didn’t make me have to play with toys I don’t like and wear colors that I think are ugly, but it does, and at least I have Kate to play with me.
My favorite thing to do with Kate when my dad left and my mom fell apart and my siblings jumped on my last nerve and wouldn’t get off, was painting. Her oldest sister was 20 and going to school at the community college down the street for art, so sometimes when she was in a good mood she would let us paint on a couple of old canvases she had that were already ridden with failed attempts at being artistic. At first my canvas was terribly muddy and earthy and vomity, all my poor choices of color blended together into a shapeless void. And then I came back one day and painted it black over the top of the ugly bland color and started over. And then I dotted stars in the sky with the white and the gray and the yellow. And then I painted a hill. And then I drew a man at the top with a shopping cart and a purple balloon. And then I was free.
Remembering Atticus, remembering Kate, remembering the day my daddy was gone and my mom left too though not with her body, remembering turning my pillow over because the one side was damp with tears and maybe a little bit of snot too, remembering wanting to hug my sister but not feeling like she would let me, remembering my life back then, when I thought it couldn’t get any worse and thinking my friends couldn’t get any better than Kate, remembering that I didn’t have a clue what would happen the next day, or the one after that, or the one after the one I was already unsure about makes me laugh a little now. Makes me smile a little too. But I can’t pretend it still doesn’t make me cry. I can’t pretend that I can forget to remember homeless men with crooked teeth and colors that I don’t like and piles of clothes in the living room and rummaging through the refrigerator for something I knew how to cook and empty drawers in my parents bedroom and not being able to play in my dad’s shoes and painting at Kate’s and finding out after a little while that I was more good than bad and learning that I was better at speaking through the canvas than I was with words.
Remembering can hurt, but when I dip my brush in my memories swipe it across the canvas, dab it in the corners, rub it down the edges, project it from my eyes, the light behind shining through, when Iremember how much Ineed to remember Ibegin tofeel the bonds of mymemorieswrapping around mybody and over mywounds and Ifeel more healingthanhurt and Ilike the way mybrush moves over myheart and takes the paint and fills up the little spaces that Ithought were biggerthantheyweresmallerthanthey were there when Iwoke up the day my daddy left.

But I can remember the day my daddy came back, too, and that was a good day.