Cynthia Morales - Poet
Cynthia resides in the Seattle, Washington area, where she practices as a licensed mental health therapist and writes poetry in her spare time. She began writing poetry when she was an adolescent, and since then has moved her private thoughts to a public space. Writing has always been a healing experience for her, which gives a voice to things that are difficult to articulate otherwise. Her personal mission is to promote vulnerability through her writing and self-discovery in the process. Cynthia enjoys hiking, yoga, tending to plants, reading, social justice work, and music.
You can follow Cynthia on Instagram @cmorpoetry
“When I sit down to write, I’m also uncovering things about myself and the world around me. It’s very similar to the process of therapy, which I not only practice but also personally engage in as well. By the time I get to the end of a session, or in this case a piece of writing, I’m often surprised by what I’ve discovered about myself and/or the world around me. I know I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable and work toward a meaningful and unknown truth when I’ve experienced the element of surprise.”
third degree burns -
are you solid, liquid, gas, plasma?
what does a burning man feel like
when you get too close?
it’s third degree frostbite -
you hope they thaw so you can, too.
they burn so bright,
you look away and see blue-sky sprites,
they dance and taunt you.
you forget what the burn feels like,
but you come back for more.
a burning man never disintegrates,
an eternal effigy to their self,
smoke clouds obscure them.
you will know a burning man
when you walk away tinged
and covered in the soot,
you will recall the smells
and the mirage,
and the burns will remind you
that a burning man
you’re receding in the distance,
all i see is queen anne’s lace
and high grasses obscure your face;
nothing remains of that aftermath;
i don’t wake up anymore
feigning restful sleep;
none of the bitter dregs except
the coffee when it’s steeped;
your fingers are out of my mind
in all the ways i can count;
i can think straight again
on a full stomach’s amount;
i don’t track your beacon anymore,
no, i won’t die on this hill anymore,
i’ve retraced my steps back
to my pre-war apartment,
discarded you in that