Cindy GreenCindy Green is a forest-wandering, poetry-scribbling stargazer with messy notebooks and messy thoughts. Despite her love for all of God’s creation, sunflowers and stars in particular have a way of sneaking into both her writing and her heart (but you won’t hear her complaining about it). She is an amateur sword-wielder with a Highland-dancing warrior spirit who also writes letters to the moon and considers the sky her best friend. While Cindy enjoys a wide range of smile-inducing activities such as camping, downhill skiing, and reading, her favorites include listening to the whispering of the wind and singing along to every word at a Skillet concert (resulting in the temporary misplacement of her voice). A focused daydreamer, organized pack rat, and oblivious observer, she is a self-professing ambivert (or a living contradiction) who deeply feels both the beauty and fallen state of the world. Through her words, she hopes to describe the indescribable and form personal connections with people while reflecting a love for her Savior and a passion for everything she touches.
“Home,” Asher’s escort said, handing him a set of keys. He splayed the keys out in his palm. Which one? But his escort had already returned to the car and started the engine. Asher tested several keys in the lock before one turned. The door creaked as he pushed it open. He cringed at the noise. But why did it bother him?
Where does a thought go once it’s been forgotten? If I found the hidden world for lost thoughts, would I befriend them? Would I stay?
Artist, noun: A soul that doesn’t believe it’s made of stardust, and so it searches for a home in every crease of a fingerprint, smudged between strokes of brush buildings and canvas walls.
I have always been able to describe the ache—the ache in my shoulders from sitting too long, the ache in my eyes from crying too much, the ache in my heart from missing you, the ache in my hands from holding the cry of my knotted heart.
The best-hidden words are the most sought for: elusive phrases hiding under tongues and peering from eyes; retreating to throats and dancing through minds; creatures so passionate and yet so timid; unwilling to leave the safety of the heart and strong enough to burn the lips that conceal it.
There are handprints on my heartbeat, a few smudges on my veins from all the people who have touched my life and left their stains. Some marks have taught me kindness, and some scars have taught me love. Some have shown me all the things I want to free my heart of.
To open a window in December is to hear the winter sing. The sky sends down its frosted bells to coat the cooling ground, and I watch in fern-green envy as it gently drifts to sleep. The world is a candied heartbeat,
swelling with holiday spirit at the rise of every note.
Why do you hide so often? Are you shy? You glow too brightly for that. You look lonely. You also look whole. How do you manage that? I want to understand you, but you keep a part of yourself hidden away.
This text is black. “Like my soul,” says my generation, stringing up skeletons and spiderwebs and painting their walls and wardrobes to match. I watch the murky words fade into dull ears, and the reality of evil creates a cloudy ache in my chest. Colors are not tools to poke fun at its existence.
We strung up lights and put stars in the sky, and she held me as we danced over rain-kissed earth. I listened as the voices that calmed me most sang our favorite lines in breathless whispers. We ran into wet grass with fingers intertwined, and the sky’s contented tears ran with my own.
