abi's pov

United States Minor Outlying Islands

WtW's resident disappearing act

a WtW vet

tbh, i forgot exactly when i joined - late 2019

Message from Writer

i'm not a poet

"nothing ever ends poetically. it ends and we turn it into poetry." - kait rokowski

current book rec
-laura dean keeps breaking up with me by Mariko Tamaki

current song rec
-rät by Penelope Scott

stay safe, stay cool, kiddos!

love,
your angsty, pretentious alt wtw older sister :)

Published Work

love me until we're plaster statues in museums | An old repost from Loved and Lost

/I adore you./

    |I'd whisper the words to you.|

I'd be like Narcissus whispering to his reflection,
but only if you asked
in that honey-sweet in meaning
broken-glass gravel in sound
voice.

    |I'd kiss every Icarus burn of yours.|

Until the imprints of my love were waxen wings
on your skin,
but only if you beg
like mere mortals beg
for Fate to spare.

   |I'd kiss your collapsed ribs.|

I'd peck kisses to your glorious imperfections
all laid out like rotting organs,
disgusting; beautiful;
I'd be the crows that picked at Prometheus,
but only if you really want to love a broken thing,
if you really want that punishment.

    |I'd take every bit of your love.|

I'd be Hades stealing Persephone,
drag you down the worst of places
and murmur tales of the beauty of you
to the skeletons in my closet,
but only if you would eat the fruit of
forbidden...

a short, messy piece about birthday blues because when you're having an existential crisis a week before your birthday, scatter sprinkles on the pages of your journal

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].

you’ve shattered so many things for me, even the poetry i’ve written | three shorter pieces that don’t deserve to be published on their own, but are all about the same person.

not to me 
i hate the idea of falling into love.
i wish to never be loved that way. 
when i was younger, i thought falling was the only way to love -- a quick tumble like alice into wonderland being led by a little white rabbit with one of those soulmate clocks.
and yet, i yearn so dearly to be loved on purpose now. i want to be remembered and remember every detail of their person, every influx of their voice, every octave of their laugh until is ingrained upon my body. i want to be loved like a fond memory.
         and, darling, this is what i could offer to you, 
        but love isn’t a bargain.

femur bones and existential crises 
we learn in biology class that the strongest bone in the human body is the femur 
and i wonder if you remember telling me that humans were built to break, to shatter. 
  ...

maxima natarum |

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.]


                                 i...

a poet; an imposter; someone who really wants to be loved, but never could be | synonyms

                    everytime i write, i have to dig my way out of a grave -- dirt ‘neath my fingertips and the sweet scent of soil filling my empty senses.
i don’t think i’ve ever been in love before,
                                        although, once when i was younger, i nearly drowned in a chlorine pool and, arms outstretched                                         to a hero i didn’t think was coming, i think i met death, staring back at me -- in those eyes, i                                   saw not cruelty, nor fate. i think it was a mother’s fear, but my eyes were shut so i can’t be sure. 

anyway, 
                                        i don’t think i’ve ever been in love before,
                                        but i’m not really one for thinking much at all.
                                        when humans think too much, then they try to be a god.
                                        although, all they ever do is destroy so i’ve always thought
                                        that maybe mortals...

mean | the kindest thing

    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.

    merely "mean", 
                but sometimes, when creativity brewed in hearts and forced smiles spread across faces of teachers and distant family, 
            "mean" could be  ...

a messy excerpt from a never-to-be-finished, cheesy, indie book about everything i regret | possibly a part one, but probably not

    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...

untitled rage and spite | men are trash

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...

an untitled prose about love and all those other fickle things (aka, i'm getting more comfortable both being and writing cliches)

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...

broken hearts and hairline fractures (aka, that one poem about things that hurt more than i ever thought they would)

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;
it's nothing,
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;
         ...

the only person who i can trust to love me stares back from the mirror and smiles

and it hit me like gunfire,
he didn't want to be loved

but deified.

he wanted to be put on a pedestal,
bowed to,
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.

he wanted,
                    he wanted, 
                   ...

i once said that my bad poetry were haunted houses; i was wrong; the only one haunted is me

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;
at peace;
eternal.

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 wish i could count sheep like i can count all the things i love about you; (aka, that one poem about unrequited love that i never thought i'd be able to write)

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;
                                                                   ...

a poem about relying on other people's opinions to stop me from hating my body because when life gives you lemons, smash and smear them against the pages of your journal

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."

if this is psychosis, i’m glad to share

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

my art is merely a throw for immortality and even that I do not want

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.
love, 
              when you tear away at it,
much like the crows who picked at Prometheus, 
               is vulnerability
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...

Dust Jacket

nobody asked for this, but (1) I'm generous lol and (2) a bit obsessed with myself [jk obviously] | dust jacket, baby

What is your favorite genre to write? 
 I love to write romance, which is probably obvious if you've read my work in the past. There's just something so enticing and challenging about creating romances between characters that feel natural, while still being interesting. There are a lot more things I love about writing romance, but specifically I like to explore how characters' environments affect how the love or why they love because it's different for everyone and I think understanding that is important.
What is your favorite genre to read? 
My favorite genre is sci-fi. I'm pretty nit-picky about my favorite sci-fi books. I've read a lot of books in that genre and only liked a select few, but it remains my favorite because when the world-building and the plot is done well, those books are some of the best I've read.
What draws you to the WtW community? 
I don't have a lot of writer friends irl, so it's...

does he make you laugh like I used to?

hi, 

            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,...

and somewhere along the way, i guess i fell in [ ] | loved and lost

 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?

 

Explanation for why I've been gone/Why I'm "retiring" | :)



Hi,
It’s your friendly neighborhood disappearing act. I just wanted to give a lil explanation for why I’ve been gone + for why I’m “retiring” (If you’re confused about the quotation marks, keep reading.)
As some of you may know, a few months ago, I was having tech problems. The laptop I’ve been using since seventh grade decided to just shut down one day. (RIP to her lol) In all honesty, I could’ve found ways to stay active. The real problem wasn’t my laptop shutting down or really anything physical. It was me. My passion and drive to keep writing had fizzled out. 
Having other people read my work was one of the most terrifying and rewarding gifts I’ve ever been given. I’ve improved so much as a writer with the help and support of my WTW peers (Y’all are awesome btws). The initial spark of passion for writing, something which I hadn’t really experienced in my creative life until...

they ask, "what's in your mind?' my answer, "nothing but the tuning of radios"

\I'm just ti-\
    /Tires screeching down my/
\Streets filled with birds, chirping at each\
    /Other moments in which I rock back and forth spills into my/
\Bathtub! I should take a\
    /Bathroom has to be cleaned some/
\Time really is just made-\
    /Up flies my anxie-/
\Tea! I can distract myself with\
    /Tea cups teetering like my insanity rocks this/
\Boats scare me, but at the same time are\
    /Cool nights and hot summer/
\Daze of writer's\
    /Blocked on Insta/
\Grams of flour, just a couple more to bake the perfect loaf of\
    /Bread spread with peanut butter and/
\Jelly legs-that's what that run did to\
    /Me all alone in this/ 
\Room's dirty again, my thoughts\
    /Spilled like/
\Juice! Would you like\
    /Someone's blowing up my/
\Phone calls I can't\
    /End of stories always make me/ ...

#CommunityChallenge

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.

2. Deep_Breaths
    To be completely honest,...