Magic, Talent, Color, and Pain: Camellia S

Camellia S. is the author of the poetry collection entitled “The Prototype of Rebirth,” collection available on Amazon. Camellia does not call herself a poet but a humble servant of words. When she takes a break, she can be found either crooning or in front of the camera, experimenting with fashion (some childhood dreams never end.) Camellia was born in India, and lives in the Midwest. She can be found on the following platforms: Twitter and Instagram- 20_camellia, Youtube- @Camellia.S, her newest venture.

Here is Camellia in her own words:

Oh what can she say? Her heart remains chained, bound to her sentiments, excitements, and passions… But her words, a tall Prince Charming atop a bright red steed, break her free! So, she wanders through the fiery sunset… It takes her back somewhere, a place where there is joy… The birth of a baby girl, her cherubic hands and laughter… And so, a Camellia is born on a cold, December night in a colorful and beautiful land, called India. Born is she from fire, born is she to run… So, she runs and runs from a childhood she calls cruel, from a heart that always wept more… What’s this? A TV! A heroine dances inside, her long midnight hair and shiny red dress… A parallel line, a little girl that looks just like her, runs to the TV… “Oh if only I could be up there…” The little girl sighs… “Oh no, just run away!” She screams at the little girl… But it’s too late… She watches as the little girl holds the hands of her mother and father and crosses the seas, to the land of freedom and liberty…

“No!” She cries, as a little girl paints her skin white… “Dear marbles so blue, if only my eyes could be like you… Dear little rosy flower, if only I could bloom like you…they say I smell dirty, if only I could have things as nice as them… If only I looked like them, they would like me… If only I could speak like them, they would stop laughing… Believe me I’ve tried and tried to change my color, but chameleons are not very nice to look at…” The little girl laments… She steps off of her bed and looks at the mirror… She gasps as echoes ricochet through her head… “My, a deflowered beauty… A black dahlia, you’re the only one of your kind who looks as pretty as a sin…” She dances as masked hands travel up her skin… Bitter stains, but she bends in the directions they play… A destroyed painting, she laughs… “At least now they think I’m pretty…” but now, she’s hated at home by many…

And in a heartbeat, the illusion disappears… She’s caught in a tug of war between two cultures… Does she belong anywhere? A tale of two identities, she holds on to both… She knows, the land of the free, Midwest America, is where she belongs…resides… But her home of India, she doesn’t let that go… And so, she starts to paint her words…  She leaps into their colors and textures… Finally, she learns how to breathe… Finally, she catches up with her skin…

But is the chapter really over? “Welcome Home,” her transcendental dreams laugh… Now that she has found herself, is it really time to find him, the blurry sketch from her dream? The story has just started weaving…

A Thankless Prayer

Cloves and spice
On a broken table…
Spread across the plates,
A thankless prayer am I…
I watch their lips,
Silence…
The champagne spills from the glass,
Like over-boiled laughter
Their chatter, leftover potatoes
Forgotten in the fridge…
Their hands shake,
They can’t pray…

Just Sold!

I pressed my nose upon the shop window,
I felt its cold glass…
The bold but delicate golden letters-
CHÉRIE…
Oh no, silly me! Not this shop!
My schoolmates were admiring the large hat,
In a lush, moss green…
Perhaps,
I had my eyes set on the tiniest orange number
They figured…
Oh, but they were wrong!
Their squirmy giggles,
How monotonous against the sways and flashes!
Looking back at me through the window,
The women from the store across the street…
The one where godless souls couldn’t go…
Attached to poles like mannequins,
They danced in naked sins,
Faceless homonyms…
But the men who lurked!
Both puppeteers and puppets…
Sweaty stains,
Their hands even repulsed shadows…
But I envied the women,
Oh how I foolishly wished to become one of them…
To dance up there,
To be touched by those men!
Their rotund fingers, fleshy…greasy…
And their brawny arms…
When I closed my eyes,
Their faces appeared chiseled…
Their warm, bushy mustaches,
Not one was clean-shaven…
Would it prick? Would it nip my skin?
And so, I made my way across the street
As whispers bled into gasps!
I loitered by the glass, stealing darkness…
Until I was the only woman up there
And the men? Dirtier…
But I smiled, as I saw more of them…

Dealing Cards…

I steal the line of Mercury…
I walk around the Sun,
Rather, I trick it into walking around me…
I paint my eyes in the colors of the galaxies,
Some say…it named itself after me…
I’ve always envied the mirror…
I can never look into it…
And so, I taught the world to look up at me…
I talk in retrograde, I age away from history…
I find the edges of the universe,
Just to abandon it…
Oh, I would stop!
I really would stop!
If only someone would say,
I looked like the flower Narcissus…
Oh my, what a horrendous color!
Just leave it be…
Catastrophe or jealousy?
I finally look up at the mirror and say,
Lust is never far away from envy…

Thank you to everyone who submitted to Literary Revelations Journal. We have received a great deal of submissions and are asking for your patience. We will respond as soon as we can. Enjoy the beauty of the season.