Cheyenne Scott Taylor is a poet and fiction writer whose work is typically confessional in nature, navigating themes like childhood, redemption, and introspection. She is a junior majoring in English as well as Secondary Education at UNR, and she serves as the literary editor of the school's literary journal, Brushfire Literature & Arts. Cheyenne enjoys sharing her writing in the Reno-Tahoe literary scene, and enjoys exploring all avenues of creative self-expression.

WEAPONS

I heard it in the rumbling of simple girlish things – you weren’t coming back for me.

You struck while the iron was hot,

When I was all citrus summers and butterfly springs.

When nothing made any sense. 

I hate when things move too fast

when a mistake can turn into forever,

and the things I can’t shake begin to seep into my blood.

As years begin to lay themselves upon me, I realize that I like weapons, adore them,

but only the ones that don’t look like weapons at all.

The kind you used to trace down 

            my spine

                         slow, easy, soft. 

Lay it all down, sweet girl.

There, in the moment, in that sepulchral theater, no one said a goddamned thing. 

The metal is cold, until it’s warm,

Everything is warm. and,

             you never looked me in the eye!

I noticed that – I noticed a lot of things. 

Because mosquitos eat when they can, and we remember the names of hurricanes who did not have

the kindness to introduce themselves to begin with, and the moonlight shines in every place we pray it

would not.

             I throw everything I own into puddles too shallow

honesty is a cold and cruel ideal to live up to, I don’t like to look it in the eyes nowadays, 

even though I can’t help it. Mercy is for frivolous people,

             especially when there’s no one there but you.

We should’ve talked it out.

​

LATEX DRESS

I feel uncertain

about the latex dress hiding in my closet.

See, we’ve had this thing going on for a while now,

where she waits for me, and I wait for her.

I can see her, dancing there in my wardrobe,

             oh, how she glistens and shines.

She coos to me about how deep her yearning is.

she dreams often about bending over the width of my thighs.

I recognize now that I have tried to placate her for much too long.

She has grown resentful

I can hear her

             gnashing her teeth at dawn when I wake.

She is starving now.

Sometimes the moonlight pools in from the window 

             and illuminates her hungry wild eyes

She craves me, she is tight and unforgiving,

             She wants to make me slasher film history.

She stares beyond me, into the darkest parts of me.

I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of her.

I think maybe, sometime soon, 

when the sun hits her just right,

& when I feel like I have more guts than I do now,

I’ll take her out

put her on

and let her cry on me as much as she pleases.