when i was younger i
gave myself claws—
scratched a friend
up to the armpit
because he made me
mad—he said he was
better than me; worse,
that i did not make him
afraid. i have always
been like a waterfall—
starts fast until it
freezes, makes mist
in the air, and one can
stare and wonder if it still
falls, if it has yet to
touch the ground (as
to that, i cannot be
sure). now people are
wintry, and i tuck a
shirt over my frostbitten
face and curl into corners
until the heat from chest
smothers the chill; my
sister told me: move in
the cold if you want to be
warm, but i stayed hidden
and still until winter would
pass. i still worry i have
yet to hit the ground, and
i don’t know what that
would mean, but the
waterfall ought to stay
still forever, silent until
the winter turns it to icy
you're beautiful (darling) i remember
when i told you these words i was inhaling
the blond tusks of your flaxen hair your
pretty pewter eyes in my hard solid
sockets and you wanted to kiss me and i
said okay. you're precious (angel) i was
stuck in the molds of your symmetrical
skin since i saw you at first chiseled
cheeks in my shattered eyes staring like
you loved me and it was alright. you're
fire (baby) and i'll stay warm rather
than freeze in the real world because
it hurts so much where everything is. you're
sugar (dearest) and i'd eat you again
and again gnawing at your perfect face your
beautiful bones, as long as it would take to
make you real
but i'm stuck
with poisoned neurons and bloody
eyes ready to stare, ready to
tear yours open with a ceaseless, with an
empty empty void. (_) you're a lifeless
assessment of a world that
i've only reviewed 2 pieces so far on write the world, and i realized that i want to be more involved in giving feedback. so, without further ado, i'm introducing free reviews!
if you are interested in receiving a review, leave me a comment with the name of ONE piece, the url link, and the reason that you're interested in receiving the review.
here are the guidelines for commenting (make sure your piece matches all of them):
1. i won't review anything by asteria or RainAndSonder, just because i've already reviewed for them and i want to review for a variety of writers.
2. the piece that you want reviewed has to be, for the most part, grammatically correct. that includes proper punctuation (lowercase pieces are okay as long as they're intended to be that way). i don't really have time to go through pieces commenting on where commas should go. i want to use my time for feedback instead. ...
makes me feel like nothing &
everything—reduced to a human
again—tell myself everyone
loves me/will love me (except
the welts in my fingers) then
looking at flat paper—so
many possibilities in my
pen; staunched by clumsy fingers (red
& crisscrossed) so i crumpled up
the pages & laughed until i
cried. they can’t hurt me anymore.
& i wanted to be troubled & a genius
in a perfect little way—my mind
reached longing arms into visions
of glory, praise, perfect drama &
i could be lovely, my fingers clean
—flawed & blameless, china doll with tear-
stained cheeks. but i ached for those people
who made sculptures out of oxygen,
chipped graphite turned to anything
(but i am nothing & everything, my bitten
fingers printing blood on things i touch)
& they are better than i. & maybe i’ve
cried till i’m laughing again.
and i’m watching the blood
in the sunset—smothered red
(like the cuts in my toes from
rough pool corners or pink twisted
shells on the fat spiky shore), sun
descending from a splattered ink
sprawl, the fiery orb going slow and
then fast in the impenetrable drop—
a waning disco, a clambering countdown
(like new year’s day, like every day
was a new year, gone again as the
tide washes the colors away).
so it sets but all i see are the spaces
between the stars, smelling gory ocean
air hot as hellfire, feeling chapped lips
like burnt parchment as a tongue passes over,
tans like strips of cardboard that cost
raw salmon rashes. “the sky is blue”
but the ocean is bluer, a hasty murderer that
sent salt spewing down my pinkened throat
and into the world inside, little mollusks
that burrowed into my wrenching stomach,
burning like the orb. but the sun is set.
so it is.
yesterday my fingers prized apart
glassy sheep flesh, cerebrum cerebellum
brain stem fresh on shaking fingers
and we peeled away layer layer layer
inspecting fearing and maybe the madness
drove it too far—we quenched we quested
that lovely longing, forgotten crime,
and how i loved that scalpel. i skewered
frontal lobe drove past memory smell
parental instinct landed with coordination
and pulled away dark veins, a tangled
vine smothered in milk muscle memory
love lust lore, my science my education
my pen my paper and writing but the
hand shakes with care with envy punctures
midnight into templates and all for science
all for wanting science. five minutes to
lunch i am hungry i am sick hands cramp
to meat-searching talons and i wish i could
forget but it’s on my fingers on my palms
the noodles crush under teeth but maybe there are
neurons crunching under the spaghetti
and it throbs it squeezes under voluntary
jaws and i ...
but i would’t know, the black shields have
long clasped my drums past detection, that
little friend singing perverted messes into my
waxed-up canals. and i’ve picked my fingers
to red sticks, crystal structures of blood and
soap, and outside i think the landfills are filled
and landed with pried off nails and shells of
fingers hanging like half moons on the mucky
mindless sky. but i wouldn’t know; the sky’s
made of squares in these geometrical times
and so are the people—circle eyes and noses
of deep isosceles, but their stomachs still
sink and dry like oceans, curved continents
dying under lips of azure blue. once upon
a time we were fat, and the starving always
starved, until we sought them out, rattled their
scrappy heads for beauty secrets. so out were
lugged the lightning-green bills and the coins that
thunder minted, back to the square-ish storm
outside. and zeus wasn’t so kind this time, and
no bread or fish need be...
“I don’t know…”
Eyes bored into a drooping scalp; face met foor, face met face met floor. Hands shook in navy pockets. Gray eyes stared. Lips were licked.
AND THE FIRE RUBBED THE STREETS––CRUMBLING CORPULENT STREETS WIDE AS SUNBEAMS. AND SHE SCREAMED.
Eyes raised (what bravery!), looked over shoulders––great angular masses, clefts like cliffs truculently cutting a still sky.
AND THE FACES WERE INCREDULOUS, BLANK AS PASTEL PAINTS ON CHAOTIC CANVAS. AND SHE SCREAMED.
Tacitly the two stared at the tiled flooring.
All was left, and as acquaintance walked away lungs burned and heaved, lungs punctured and puked. Fingers massaged face, massaged bones and eyes red as sunset.
AND THE GLASS BURST LIKE BOMBS AS SHARPENED HANDS PLUNGED, WRECKED, LEFT FOR DEAD THOSE WATERY CHIPS OF SHREDDED TRANSPARENCY. OH, HOW IT HURT.
Don’t talk to me don’t talk to me.
i think you veins were made of electric currents, because
today the outage stifled my house, and i ate breakfast under
flashlights before hearing the news. it meant nothing to me, nothing
but the greater circumstance, the jolting throb for someone
i'd never known before. numb fingers on a steering wheel, the car
an empty cavern, and everyone thinking in unison about the
wonder in tragedy, the cosmos in the tears dripped and drunk
in the shortage of light. first period, the translations of things––
video videre = see; pons pontis = bridge; tears = down everyone's
faces and into the textbooks they just can't see. so class was
stopped and hallways were filled, filed with sobbing people clutching
one another like cliffs––the lockers were slammed, and for once
the pain of inanimate objects was felt. science room darkened like
the outage that morning, and the crying people made a jagged circle
and spoke out loud...
her face is little and leafy—hands smeared
in nit and grit, this and that, dirt and seeds. she
is a rascal, minuscule mouse, and a goddess of
the earth, of ruptured cloth, soiled
smiles and wide sunshine. she walks around things
and hugs at them—wide mother’s waist, buried in purple
skirts made of folds and playgrounds. little goddess builds
temples made of pink, and mother and father kneel
to worship, praying with crazy hands, and she kisses
them with wet lips and runs into the grass and rain.
tickled, dirt plastered to a soggy face, bubbly mouth
parted in whooping gales, she never questions, never
doubts the yellow of sun, yellow of life.
The beetle struggled on the bathroom floor.
Its thin and glossy legs asserted blindly forward, spindly, hopeless. Maybe it wished for a scrap to cling, or even a boy’s outstretched fingers meaty for grabbing. But it only lay on its back, black shell glinting prettily on the tiles. Troy expected little else.
He too was lying with his back on the floor, the same floor, the grimy unwashed stretch prickling with cat litter and pocks of old shampoo. Toilet paper lay in flowered rolls on the ceramic. An artificial mouse was pasted in the corner, muffled in old and silvery hairs. Its owner had been dead for years, but Troy had never moved it.
The room was silent but for the whirring of a fan, Troy’s oxygen stirring the condensed and stinking air. The world he breathed was hot and faintly soggy, swirling like steam on a parched tongue, and the humidity trickled down his forehead in clear beads. He...
and the room is clean and airy, cloaked in icy
darkness, but the fierce eyes of the alarm clock paste
pixelated numbers across the barren white
walls, a faint aquamarine creeping, stabbing through
lidded eyes, then a sleepy palm on a mismatched dial, and now
the radio sings, fractured paper voices warbling
over unsteady guitars, soft and sticky in clogged
eardrums. 10:28, and the rectangular grids of the
ending numeral shifting, one side blinking away, 9,
and then the tens wrigggle and sway, hour by
hour, day by day, while the radio rackets in sleeping ears.
summer = a soggy mirror, a slippery sieve
and joy = golden sand, lush as fruit, rapidly slipping
decreasing, silver and sterile, undergoing air, fading to
tear-shaped particles on a rough and rocky shore.
here = fact:
THE MEANING OF LIFE = TO BE HAPPY, or so
they tell me every day every week every year every
lifetime. but meaning spins a vicious cycle, soaring high
into happy oxygen when the sky = cold, keeling into
barren earth as the sun = fat and warm.
“it = beautiful day” sing the birds the trees the belligerent
humans, a beautiful day brimming with the meaning
of life. they love the sunny straps acquired on
shoulders on arms on legs, the pretty pretty grass and the
blue blue sky.
all for me: i sit down with the sun and
cry hot tears gilded golden by summer as sand pitfalls
through a glassy snowflake sieve.