Annabelle Edwards







« Suffer The Sound Of The Silence »

               (Slam Version)


Women possessive over their stress
Wanting to hide struggle like its acne anxiously awaiting death:   a magazine airbrush and overanalytical $$ signs flashing
Like strippers reading Stieg Larsson between shifts

Worry is not a lover and even if it was you shouldn’t give two fucks if it has a conversation with a French waitress.

Realize she has to pay the bills so she can stay in the one bedroom apartment she shares with three roommates because streets are less constricting than closets, but twenty times more dangerous than claustrophobia.

Hope is not a bandaid.
Rip me off like naivety reclined in smooth leather of used Toyotas
This isn’t dodgeball but I could still use the practice.
Of finding that rhythm
Catch and extract
Feather the blade
Let it run


Misconception has thickened my skin
False consensus effect
Not everything is about you
Why do you think it is about you
It’s not


You cannot bottle up brilliance, store it between a pair of quotation marks.

It cannot be contained, filed away for later like the half eaten lasagna from last Friday.


Whether it is heard or rustled up intimidation from eyes set on an otherwise blank page, if it doesn’t hit your nerve endings like bowling balls on corn chip toes, then it never will.

You cannot bottle up brilliance, the fragments become sudokus lost at sea.

« You cannot bottle up brilliance, » she said
Souffrir le son du silence

« Pond Stones & Breaststroke »


Stones of Monoazo, Lavender, & Cornflower Blue
Oblong and round

Sapphires clasped around the  necks of September newborns

At first glance, complementary colors
But I know not of art
Only recessive genes
Followed by the question, does this outfit match?

I pluck the lavender from my neighbor’s garden to use as Christmas lights
Dye my hair a light shade of calm
Paint my skin off white to hide the jaundice
And cover that with sunset concealer


Brown the grass and kill the plants
Toss the jewels off riverbanks
And watch them swim

You can’t call me materialistic


« The Cliff Walk At Pourville »

You know a guy named Claude could sing the body electric just as good as Walt
Instead of verse he bled paint
Squeezed the muscles
So tense veins popped
Like hinged jaws lock
Fellow artists were there to witness his short lived venture into Abstract


Kaleidoscope pastels smudged across the aching canvas
Waiting for Monet’s artistic massage
Zen Shiatsu
Petite women cascade little palms down the small of his spinal cord
Tough fragility in jet black buns
Glaze of sonora almond eyes


A dizzying hangover of impressionism
Muted colors
Vivid pixels blur certainty into squiggles
Three dimensional shapes
I wonder if my vision is declining

I’m certain it’s crossed
Like railroads
Waiting for the whir of the Northeast Corridor Line
To come and rouse it from the safety of slumber

Did the women want to jump
Or were they just enjoying the view
Shaded by a pink parasol
Were the clouds on a rampage
To soak their carefully stitched gowns with precipitation
Or did they want to see if they could fly with the flamingos












Annabelle Edwards is a young writer and photographer from New York. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Gone Lawn, and Crack The Spine. She is the Co-Editor of Control Literary Magazine.


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