After All That

This project is an attempt to visualize a relatively universal experience: having the proverbial rug pulled out from under you either by your or someone else's doing and trying to handle the resulting heart state with compassion, realism, and hopefully, growth. 

Find the full poems and the graphics based upon them below. 

Words: Kaitlynn Wornson
Photography: Samuel Hanson
Graphics: Chelsea Siegfried

 
 

Stairs.

I can hear my neighbors
Living,
Doing,
Going about
Their neighbor lives while I
Sit and write
These words that contain
And maintain
My world-
My heart, stretched out and put into symbols-
These letters that our ancestors christened with meaning
And held up to the gods in challenge.

Look what we can do-
Contain the untamable-
The un-namable-
The elusive thing-the words thing.

Print available here.

Print available here.

My neighbor thinks she will and I think she won’t
Because here we are in the swirling mass.

Chance, perchance, circumstance- I’ve never been called ‘my darling’.

(Pause for effect)

Why yes, there it is.
My perfectly perfect ruse.
My main reason to refuse-
I don’t know if I know how to accept.
But the storm is here and I suppose I’ll get wet.

Darling, do you have an umbrella?  

(Alone, alone, at last, at last)

Turning,
Burning,
Fighting the air like in kickboxing class

- my god -

Print available here. 

Print available here. 

When did the train decide to run away from my window?
When did the story fall apart - well.
We all die in there.
In the middle of the heart, the warm part.

Ache, break, remake.

(You’ll never be alone when you have a smile like that)

But here I am, alone in a moment flat.
And the sun mocks me - remember who you used to be?

Dusty, musty, wake up sick with anxiety.
Breathe until I can’t see the calm.
Made my own storm and forgot where I hid the gin.

Print available here. 

Print available here. 

Gin, tin, begin.
Begin the something I’m supposed to be by now.
Goddammit fucking hell.
I’m in the middle of a lived - out epiphany.
I wonder how many sunrises it will take
To shut up the perfect, well-rounded ache.

Maybe two- one for me and one for my future.

Future, suture, closure.
I’ll close the door when I fucking want to.
That’s my half truth and God knows more than I do.


Dripping

He left me hungry. (I’ve had the same with others.)
The spark - the chemistry - the dance of who will make a move and who will walk away
Empty.
It was a pleasure to burn - I can’t do it anyway
Else.
Otherwise I’ll lose this self, the one I saw for a minute and then taught to shut
Up.

That self - the dreamer, stuck, in-betweener, I cannot remember the last time I fed
Her.

I left me hungry. A dripping faucet of could-be’s, circling in my head like
Refugees.

God.

I remember when I was sure. It was a Thursday. And I had to run away because I no longer
Was.
Chaos is mother’s milk. And the silence screams liar louder than the crowd screams
Loner.


Pretty, Right?

Maybe we’re all just pretty pictures
Lost in the moment
Lost in the future.

How small can one being be?

To disappear
To melt into the walls
To say nothing. Nothing at all.