i'm a deer in headlights
as candles flicker in front of me;
as close family sings around me;
as i miss the phantom touch of your hand grasped in mine.
the memories of you drip like wax down a melting candle.
birthday cake tastes like your chapstick;
it's sickly sweet
like your honeyed voice,
and yet, i still hope you'll call,
[even though i know you won't].
my father’s betrayal is engraved onto the callouses of my hands.
it is a footnote in every essay i write.
it is the adrenaline that flows through my veins as i run.
[and yet, i bear the title of eldest daughter
as a labor of love.
i scrounge for the bits of validation like dog
as they drip from his frozen heart.]
some days, i think i would drop that match to feel the warmth of his heart.
my father's betrayal is the pain that aches in my back
as i hunch over scraps of homework
-- a petty, desperate attempt to win that golden crown.
[he has already been crowned, though,
so, as shaky hands scratch out equations,
resentment flows like milk and honey
and encouragement to him.]
as a child, i was held tall by a firm brace in the form of a single word - "mean".
yes, it was a joke at first, but eventually "mean" was more familiar to me than the syllables of my own name.
"mean" because i was never good at being soft, nor gentle, with anybody, much less myself.
"mean" because the light that twinkled my eyes resembled more a wildfire than campfire;
destructive, chaotic, forceful.
"mean" because i knew which words to twist into insults
and that was always my fault;
for being a child who was taught by example exactly which words hurt the most.
"mean" because my wit and tongue paired were a force to be dared.
but sometimes, when creativity brewed in hearts and forced smiles spread across faces of teachers and distant family,
"mean" could be ...
He can feel the bass in his bones. It makes him feel all giddy inside, as if the pop-punk is shaking youth back into his corpse. A shiver runs down his spine, causing him to brush against her arm ever so lightly. She’s so close that he can feel the heat emanating off of her. It’s a bit of a cliche, that much he’ll admit to; to sit so close, yet feel so distant. A part of him, what he thinks must be reasoning, is screaming at him to run; run away from her and this small town and everyone who’s ever felt like family, and merely be, but when her head drops onto his shoulder, he swears he can feel something binding and tying him to the streets of this town. He slings a heavy arm around her and pulls her close.
This is normal, he reminds himself as his heartbeat becomes irregular.
Yet, his heart feels...
a boy told me i could never think like a man,
but, as a woman, it is already my place to.
how else do you think i know to speed up my pace when a man who i do not know begins to follow me on my way home?
it was once believed that women could be witches;
surpise! we're mind readers, too.
he didn't believe me, though.
so i thought like men and these are the words that ebbed and flowed;
daddy once told us that women like to be chased,
so we match our walk to her sped up pace.
strong women are threats,
and because all women are,
right now, we're scared for lives,
almost like every woman who walks home at night.
we like publish exposes on the mistakes of a father
because we're so much better than him,
but never apply those lessons to how we raise our own sons.
we use the word 'we' to...
you're sitting in a car with someone whose smile is like a sunrise.
your heart is pounding, but you don't know why.
this feels criminal, and, although it is not, you're terrified that someone may see the way you're staring and dial 911. you're not exactly sure what they'd say, but people always find something to talk about, so, as you step out of the car and cross that diner parking lot, you keep your head down and pray.
words have never come easy to you, though, and that sentiment rings true as your lungs freeze up and time slows, and you're seconds away from just giving up, but then, they grab your hand and your lips find a sweet refrain; the melodic syllables of their name.
you won't know you're in love then, but that's where it'll start;
an empty parking lot, wrapped in their sweater, with their hand in yours.
you'll know when you're sitting in that tiny...
loving you is like breaking my hand again.
it is a million universes crashing and burning within my aching bones,
each longing for a hand to hold.
it is the dull chill of ice against joints;
a bitter attempt to freeze all feeling out,
to become cold.
it is those eternal words you spoke,
'i'd never fall in love with a writer; i don't want to be immortal'
and the way their irony makes my joints throb
as i write this petty poem.
it isn't pain;
and i think that's worse because nothing reminds me of doing nothing with you,
saying nothing with you,
being nothing to you.
it is the memory of watching a cloudless sunrise;
of feeling the warmth spread through my bones;
of knowing that, with you, today might be a good day;
and it hit me like gunfire,
he didn't want to be loved
he wanted to be put on a pedestal,
worshipped until halos formed
and angels sung the praises i never would.
he wanted a sacrifice of love,
a demonstration of my adoration;
he wanted that which i could never give,
my heart on a silver platter.
i wander in graveyards, hoping someone else will haunt me,
anyone but you.
yet, your ghost is all I find,
buried in between vowels and petty rhymes.
everytime I sit to write,
i find your phantom ready to fight,
to earn it's place among the pages of this journal,
engraved in sheets of paper;
your spirit has boiled over from my heart to my lungs,
leaving fairy footsteps as it wanders on my tongue;
every little stutter evidence of your ghost,
every phrase of yours I repeat is possession over your host.
there's a shake in my limbs.
as they ache, they sing a hollow hymn,
asking where did you go?
what is this curse I bear, to never find home?
did you hear that phantom whisper, too?
the ghost that spoke said, "home is not a place, but a person";
you must have,
and took it to heart, too,
as you made of haunted house of...
i’m not sure why i never knew ‘til now;
youthful innocence, perhaps?
maybe, blatant ignorance?
i think denial;
that’s a stage of grief, right?
it seems to me that is what is most suitable;
for this feels like death.
the end of one;
a beginning for another;
the dead – a flying youth;
boys serve compliments on silver platters; so kind, so sweet; so naive to think it matters
i think their comments are like poison that feels good in the moment, then leaves you empty and yearning for more. yet, i can never stop myself from flirting and flaunting just to earn their admiration.
my features twist into Salome's as i lift the cover.
"it's so pretty!"
it's exactly what I want to be when I write this raw poetry; open and honest and splayed out like Prometheus
i'll share it with my friends,
carry it to my mother.
"please, show them all my carved out heart on that platter."
folie au deux;
A madness of two;
Dancing like lost boys
underneath the pale moon;
Surfing slices of poetry at dawn,
stifled only by quiet yawns;
Mumbling purple prose under chapped lips,
to strangers: simply the ramblings of mad men,
to us: ornate worlds created and destroyed in mere minutes,
the power of Greek gods in mortal hands;
Tearing away at ourselves,
trying to pick the bugs from under our skin
until nothing is left;
just folie au deux; A madness of two
immortals can never love
because love is about survival
and i guess that’s why i’m scared to be eternal.
you see, a god could never love a mortal,
not truly at least.
when you tear away at it,
much like the crows who picked at Prometheus,
and that is the one thing that immortals can’t be.
when nothing can harm you, do you ever truly feel fear?
love is the acceptance,
and even more than that, it is the fear of how weak humans really are.
yet, denial keeps brewing in my veins,
leaves me hanging on my seat
with that same question,
“what do i want to be?”
i’d like to say...
This is supposed to be for some letter writing contest, but I can't bring myself to turn in it. I just know that by the time I psych myself up to submitting it that it'll be too late, like everything is with you. So it's merely going to sit in a corner of computer next to stupid romance poetry and discarded pieces of prose. Nevertheless, I'm going to write this out in hopes of moving on, letting go.
How are you? That's what people usually ask in letters, right? How are you doing? Are you okay? How could you forget about me so easily? What did I do wrong? I can't delay the hard questions. We both know we've procrastinated talking about our feelings for long enough. Why wasn't there room enough in your heart for both of us? Did you have to choose? And if you did,...
i always knew you couldn't save me.
in fact, i'm not sure if i ever really believed that anyone could,
and yet, i thought you would try,
not just leave me here,
grasping at straws and your lies,
trying to fulfill this empty feeling inside
and now that you're gone, who am i supposed to be?
at least around you, i had a place,
a purpose in your arms,
not just hurting.
why did you leave me here alone?
Ngl, it was soo hard to whittle this down to only a few writers! I just love all of them too much. :) Be sure to go check out these amazing lil' writers and follow them. <3
1. Anne Blackwood
Anne Blackwood has been SO supportive of my writing since really the beginning of my writing career on WTW. I will say that I don't think I would've been comfortable posting so much of my writing if it wasn't for people like her. On top of being a literal ray of sunshine, she has this way words that I can only aspire to have! Her piece "a karaoke machine speaks on repeat" is a whole other level of amazing and beautiful and I have no words other than squeals of adoration to describe how much I love it! She is so sweet and just has this beautiful soul.
To be completely honest,...