by Alessandra Albano
I eat the dead butterflies on the windowsill,
Their tiny bodies are crunchy, it’s like chewing sea shells.
I live in the basement.
Below where I spin dust into dream catchers,
And weep for my lavender as the little boys tap porcelain fingers at the window.
They leave me to cry, but then come back to drink my tears.
And there is a knock at the door.
I stretch down the drunk corridor,
To meet a man who is inhaling the ocean.
I lean into his arms to watch the skeleton of the chandelier.
He pours salt in my mouth,
To heal my blue burned heart.
Alessandra Albano graduated from Cornell University in Spring 2017 with a B.A. in English Literature and a minor in Psychology. During her undergraduate career, she had the opportunity to take various creative writing classes, which led to her interest in the poetic effect of sound alongside the fusion of contrasting images. She has been published in The New York Times, The Cornell Book Review, and served on the editing staff of Rainy Day, Cornell’s semi-annual creative writing publication. She is currently pursuing her Masters in English and American Literature at New York University.