Olivia Dodge
Bio
Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
Stories (111)
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GRIEVING ME
Any feeling at all is something worth having. I hope if you remember anything it’s that I tried every day to feel something more. That I begged God to show me how. I stood in our sunroom surrounded by everything I loved and I cried to no one. It never lasted more than a second. I hope you remember the way I said I love you. The way I squeezed you but could never say what it meant. I hope you know what it meant. You can let the anger wash your wrists and I won’t be there to stare deadly at them. To smile with only my lips. I tried to show it in my eyes. I care for you. I watched your chest breathe like an infant. I want you to be cared for. You can give away my things. You can sell them or burn them if it makes you feel better. I want you to do something with the feelings I could never feel myself. Any feeling at all is something worth having. So when you feel relieved I hope you know I am too.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
6/12/24
6/12/24 I am writing on a screen made of lost words and the day is Wednesday (I’m usually off on Wednesdays) / The hair on my shins is tickling me out of every trance (the ones that happen inevitably every fourteen minutes or so) and I have never been so in love with the life I am living (I love you) / I could be anywhere outside of these walls but I could never be without the breakage they leave behind / Little flames of devotion keep our shelves lit through the night (we’re both scared of the dark) (I love you) / I’ll tell you the debris is something my mother gave us so we can stay here until sunrise / but your hands tell me you will not be the one to pick it up (we can leave all of this behind us) / Outside is warm enough without glass-trapped intimacy a fingertip’s length away– what does it mean to be envious of her transparency? / What does it mean to be furious that mine is smudged with black ink, tarnished with oil and grease? / There are a thousand writers in my grave not yet dug and each and every one of them is begging for your love (I love you).
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Anger and Going Home - rendition
May 20 2024 10:41pm I am inside the freezer. A home to babies and corpses and a napkin I used months ago. I’m uncomfortable. I’m upset because the bends of my knees feel like some sort of desperate amalgamation of part and tide. Separation doesn’t cure heat sensitivity and a street lamp won’t stress injustice, but they say he knows what he’s doing. He only looks between the rods when our teeth turn brown, so we assemble lasting links and pretend our bodies can survive off of one another. All of this to say, my hunger cannot be given to you, my mother cannot nurse you to sleep, and ziplock bags cannot keep these temperatures livable. You have to find a hand to hold and scrape the plaque off your teeth with the tongue that God gave you.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
Excerpt II
excerpt 4/27/24 Have I told you that you are the warmest womb to ever have revived me? The doctors won’t listen. I visit her daily until I can’t anymore. She understands, tells me I’m the only one who makes her feel guarded, and I have never thought of guarded in the sense of secure, only closed. My dear friend lies still in her cotton consummation, destined to blight the waters with blood, and I fear I am the only one who knows how to help– Would you really stoop to such a rotten sense of delusion? On what pedestal must you stand to enlighten a child–
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
I’m Writing A Book. Content Warning.
VOL. 1 3/8/24 8:29pm I am writing with my father on my shoulder but his words do not sound like the snap of a Nikon like they once did (it is strange the way our voices lose their heft once we decide a palm provides more closure). His words used to have the grip of a safety strap, giving me the assurance to buy myself a cellophane-coated death without twitching, or tie my shoes the right way and not feel too useless about it. Now they sound like refrigerators in a grocery store, blaring in silence, a woman’s hush, soft embraces from– This is stupid.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Writers
Memoir Through Time
3/29/24 8:19pm When I was twelve I went to therapy for the first time. When I was thirteen I decided to live. When I was thirteen he told me never to bring a black man in this house. When I was fourteen I decided that words meant more than action. When I was fifteen I changed my mind. When I was fifteen I met my second therapist. When I was sixteen I decided to live. When I was sixteen I became my mom’s mom. When I was sixteen he told me that everything would change. When I was seventeen I believed him. When I was seventeen I met my third therapist. When I was eighteen I decided to live. When I was eighteen I didn’t know what that meant. When I was nineteen I moved away. When I was nineteen I met my fourth therapist. When I was nineteen I fell in love. When I was twenty I decided to live. When I was twenty I told my dad that I loved him. When I was twenty I told myself that any response was a good response. When I was twenty-one I called my grandparents. When I was twenty-one I decided to love.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
3/1/24 10:48pm
3/1/24 10:48pm I’ve Grown Feet This Month and when my teeth become too brittle to take on shards of ice, I will rely on those who whittled them down, suckling at citrus from the vines of motherhood, beckoning a wife, a woman whose lips curl in agony but showcase content, like a curtain closing each breath, the burning on my knees leading me to water, I remember this, I know these chips, I taste this wire wrapped tightly around each stem, fingering the seeds like little tiny bones, a man in the corner, telling us he has lived here all his life, grown to foot the shores and eye the birds, swallow shards whole, because they will melt in the end
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
