The Girl He LovesThe girl he loves is midnight, like the blue of the sea cradled by the moonlight.
The girl he loves is verdant, the very green of the hill kissed by the summer delight.
The girl he loves is coral, as pink as the roses that grow in his mother's garden.
The girl he loves is crimson, red like the autumn leaves that lay abandoned.
The girl he loves I can never be
Because he's allergic to violets,
And violets are too much like me.
Two Years LaterShe asked him gently, “Do you love me?”Two Years Later1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
In his long silence, she found closure,
And left her love under a willow tree.
Wistful"I am the boy who wants to loveWistful1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
your misshapen words,
your broken hearted pieces,
your ink split fingers.
I am the boy who wants to kiss
those scar tattooed arms,
that tear stained face
mend what has been broken.
I am the boy who can
make your heart
sing poetry again."
If only he would say it
like he had
The MonstersThe monsters were neverThe Monsters1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
under my bed.
Because the monsters
were inside my head.
I fear no monsters,
for no monsters I see.
Because all this time
the monster has been me.
SpinelessMy mother always told me I was born with four spines. They stay there, side by side, in my ramrod straight back, the reason for my very correct posture. So when my back began to arch, people noticed.Spineless1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
My parents were first. You look different, they would suppose as I would approach every morning for breakfast. Is something wrong? My mother would question. Are you ill? My father would ask.
I had a gift with the vague and I used it to my only advantage in this scenario. Because telling them the truth would be a lot more devastating. How would I tell them about the fact that my bones, my spine, the very part of me they admired most, was depreciating?
I suppose the trouble with most relationships is to trust someone, knowing that you would willingly lie to them, just to protect them from getting hurt. We all do it, and those of us who claim we don’t, only lie because their lies are smaller. I lied to protect them from what had happened to my bones. Not just my spi
FragmentsI call them fragments, the parts of me that were too exhausted to stay. He calls them flecks because I am a flake. I wish I was a flake. It sounds prettier than being a fragment. Flakes are like snow. Soothing, falling from the sky on the tip of his tongue that melt and disappear. Fragments are archeological findings of a scarred past we really should not remember.Fragments1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I want to remember my scars. So I am a fragment.
I draw on my legs. When my skin dries out, I use my index finger as a pencil and draw what the clouds are trying to tell me. Sometimes it’s a dog, and sometimes it’s a bear and sometimes it is his face looking at me disapprovingly.
That is when I stop drawing.
At night, when the rain falls, I sit at the bay window and pretend to write stories whilst he pretends to sleep. “What are you writing?” he will ask in his asleep voice. “A funny story.” It is not. It is a pale, scary story, and it looks like my skin. “Were you dreamin
You call it Judgement, We call it SinEmily needs the words to understand that she isn't being unreasonable. She just wants them to mean something and not be a string of words which flows into itself over and over again.You call it Judgement, We call it Sin2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.
Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully
or maybe it actually is.thisor maybe it actually is.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
a love poem:
this is not about
me and how i hate
the way realism tastes.
this is about you.
this is about how you
are one too many shades arrogant,
how nearly every night you
try to forget that time has
left you behind. this is
about your laugh and the way it
whispers "i can't remember
what i was like before i
became this." and,
if i'm being honest, this is about
how i will never see your too
cocky for your own damn good grin that
makes me go weak in the knees.
this is about you
and how you're not real and how i wish
to god that i wasn't either.
Teaching Summer to BreatheSummer will always remind me of hot, sweltering nights spent drinking sangria, through the dripping fairy lights of your bedroom window. A sticky, starry sky looked back at us, the glow of the moon almost golden in the heat. Fourteen meant we weren't growing up fast enough and a liquor cabinet key seemed to hold the answer to that problem.Teaching Summer to Breathe1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
You taught me how to drink that night.
(You also showed me how beautiful it was to just hold your breath till your head spins and reality seems like it is going to fade further and further away.)
Six summers ago I met a boy who liked to tell me how much like summer I was. He was big boned and thin skinned and the first time I told him he wasn't mine to keep, he left handprints on my skin that reminded you of a canvas covered in autumn leaves that you saw in New York. Then you proceeded to break every single window in his house (Yes, even the one in the attic he loved so much.)
You taught me how to smile through heartbreak that night.
Why I Hate Romantic Comedies1.Why I Hate Romantic Comedies1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Because they say that for every single boy who counts the stars, there is a little girl who is wishing upon one. (And they never mention what happens after the stars fade into morning and the other falls into oblivion)
Because they say that people fall in love when the time is right, they are true to each other and are ready to be together. (But no one ever mentions how she is so damaged she can barely think, and he is so cynical that he may never be ready.)
Because they insist that your soulmate is going to be a good, kind, caring human being who will love you from the bottom of their hearts. (This is due to the fact that even if there is someone for everyone, bad people are immune to the soulmate theory.)
Because they always have a happy ending (And real life begins after the sun has set and she has realized that he may not be everything she hoped for and he begins to have second thoughts about commitment.)
Because everything is assured in i
beautiful broken things must stick togetherbecause she is a broken pretty thing,beautiful broken things must stick together9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and he is the little boy who grew up
Let the Fall Make You Stronger."Hey! Are you all right?"Let the Fall Make You Stronger.8 months ago in Emotional More Like This
"Sure, why wouldn't I be?"
"Um...because you just fell from the roof of the hou-"
"See, that's where you're wrong. I didn't fall. The floor challenged me and I accepted."
"And how did that go for you?"
"The floor won. But only because it had the advantage."
"Of being non sentient and vast in size, along with the fact that there is a freaking storm out!!"
"Nope. I just attacked from the wrong position."
"I overestimated my skills."
"I'll say. You're bleeding!"
"Only a little. Ask me again."
"If I'm fine."
"Is it because you're bleeding?"
"You're supposed to ask 'Why'."
"God, you're so bloody difficult!"
"But cute. Just ask."
"Because this world we live in, it gives us these dreams, you see. These great big beautiful colourful galaxies in our heads of ideas, thoughts and empathetic conclusions to our fellow humans. Our brain tells us, go on, be curious, make those mistakes.
Broken Sleep, Red LipstickI am only an insomniac when it rains. The pitter patter of the raindrops reminds me of the pitter patter of cat paws.Broken Sleep, Red Lipstick1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
(He liked to sleep at my feet when I could barely think, just to make me feel better. I think you used to tell him to.)
I wish I could wrap your memories around my spine and wear them as a backbone, because they are stronger than the arch my broken spined back seems to have developed of late.
(Spines are oddly brittle, and a lot like wrists. Easy to break and forever to heal.)
But I cannot depend of any of that anymore. So I wear red lipstick and high heels and go to parties and tell strangers how amazing they are to be wearing red lipstick and high heels and how different they must be to come to this party instead of the other one.
(All because you would hate parties and think nightlife is so stupid.)
It is what I do with my insomnia. Because my spineless back, the memories of you incessantly looped in my sleeplessly addled brain and the raindrops
Take ThisTake this kiss upon your hand,Take This1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
For the ones who starved themselves,
Because "ugly" was written all over their mirrors,
Because "fat" was the only thing in their way.
Take this hug around your shoulders,
For the ones who cried themselves to sleep,
Because, unlike everyone else,
Their pillows kept their secrets.
Take this wish for your success,
For the ones with wounds blanketing their wrists,
Because physical pain gave feeling,
And feeling was so hard to find.
Take this whisper in your ear,
For the ones who live through pain,
Through sorrow, through regret,
Through loneliness in crowded rooms,
Through nightmares and judgement and hatred...
Take these words, darling,
These words I say to you.
Stay strong. Never give up. Keep breathing.
Let's keep going,
For the ones who starved themselves,
For the ones who cried themselves to sleep,
For the ones with wounds blanketing their wrists,
For the ones who live through pain,
For the ones forced to survive...
And for the on
This is Not a Story about SuicideI am not here. These are not hospital walls. This is not a nurse who is speaking to me. That is not John unconscious, lying in a bed that faces due North, and that is not his mother trying to explain why his bed should always face North because he hates sleeping facing South.This is Not a Story about Suicide1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
This is not happening.
I am not taking a deep breath. I am not walking down the sickly white corridors with their bleach scent. I am not buying this cup of coffee from a cafeteria lady who is working at an hour that is reserved only for intensive care patients. This is not the way back to what is not John’s room.
That is not his heart rate dropping, and I am not running out of the room, screaming for help. We are not being pushed out, that door does not have a red light that claims intensive care, it has not been all night.
That is not John’s doctor explaining how they were not able to pump his stomach completely and it is not John who flat lined. That is not an empty hospital bed. That is not his moth
Lying, Cheating Harlot“I have issues.”Lying, Cheating Harlot1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
“That’s a revelation.”
“No. Seriously. I have issues.”
“All right. I’ll bite. What’s going on?”
“I don’t think I’m ever going to find someone who’ll love me.”
“What? Why're you looking at me like that?”
“You aren’t serious, right?”
“I am glad my pain makes you so incredulous.”
“All right, let me try this again. If you can't find someone who loves you, who am I to you?”
“Don’t answer that. That was rhetorical. I am the girl who spends hours huddled in a corner of a library, trying to find what you love the most about Marlowe, just so I can write you a poem worthy of Shakespeare. I’ve made books my lovers, hours my enemies and you the only story.”
“You do that for-”
“I am the girl who will split her fingers in two and let the ink fall on pages and p
Could I Send You The StarsCan I send you the stars?Could I Send You The Stars1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
A million twinkling lettters
Waiting above your head each night to be read
In gentle melody like midnight lullabies
For the girl I dearly wish could hear them.
Can I borrow your moon?
I know without it your nights may feel empty
But I envy its lovely radiance shining
Upon those two eyes
I wish I could see wish I could gaze into
So instead could I borrow your Moon?
And gaze into it hoping I'll find the loveliness
Of your eyes there instead.
Could I steal your Sun?
And pocket it's millions
And millions of memories
Of lightly caressing you with its rays
Knowing the feel of every beautifully delicate
Part of you for every day of every year..
Could I lease your dreams?
And reside there with you
Underneath our stars' gentle lullabies
And beneath the Moon's loving gaze
Away from the Sun's prying rays
Since you're all I really need.
So could I send you the stars
And hope they'll send my love too?
A Little Bit of WonderlandHer name was Alyssa, and when she was nine, her mother built her Wonderland. After being raised on a healthy diet of Charles Dickens, Enid Blyton and J.M. Barrie, it seemed like the natural course of action. She created it out of paper, each scene indispensably, indisputably perfect in its imperfection.A Little Bit of Wonderland1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
And she did it because Alyssa was terrified of the idea of falling through a rabbit hole, into a place that allows magic only when you are confused. Mothers do the most impractical, exhausting things to show how much they love their children. It seemed a pity that it was this very effort that kept Alyssa up all night, staring at the paper people like they were coming to get her.
(If Alyssa’s mother knew, she would have spent all her time trying to explain to the little girl that it wasn’t just paper people she should be afraid of.)
God appeared to have a sense of humour when little Alice became Alyssa’s best friend. She lives across the street, her hair always
Nothing Lives Foreveri.Nothing Lives Forever1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When you were a child, we would sit on the porch to talk about your day. And sometimes, we would find a dead bird, or a frog on there. And you would ask me about death and why it happens, looking at the poor creature in my hands, its life cut short and touch it tenderly. I would always say the same thing.
Nothing is meant to live forever, my dear.
The school called me in on your twelfth birthday and asked if I had known how clever you were, that your test scores were the best in the state. They asked me if I knew I had a genius child on my hands who grew bored easily in class and tended to distract others in his classroom, sometimes causing arguments, fistfights and could manipulate his classmates into doing anything.
We don't think this is the school for him. He needs to be challenged appropriately.
You fell in love at seventeen and she was lovely. Kind, caring and beautiful, I couldn't ask for a better girl for you. She was our neighbour
reasons to love a shy girli. men fear strong women,reasons to love a shy girl1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
but she's far from strong.
this wisp of a girl
doesn't even need a hurricane
to fall apart.
she'd glued and re-glued,
old bonds wearing thin,
but if you ask politely,
she'll let you touch her scars.
ii. her lips are fettered in rusted chains.
you'd need a crowbar to pry up
her whispered secrets.
you are not worthy to hear her voice
just as she is not worthy to give it to you.
she told me everything she knows,
and i shut it away,
kept it safe.
i tied the threads into double knots
just to make sure
they wouldn't curl away from me,
twisted up like a dead spider's legs.
iii. she is hewn from shadow,
woven from grains of sand.
you might think she'd flow,
breeze by on a sparrow's breath,
but she's never been good at
anything but sinking.
she is buried treasure, and all
the things you wish you could forget.
iv. you found her washed up on the shore,
drawing pictures of her flickering soul,
and knew she was too unsteady to love.
when you reached for her heart,
The end of a worldAs I look out the window and see the clouds of smokeThe end of a world1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
People are leaving their house,
With their face drained of hope
Close by I see people crying,
In the distance I hear people screaming
The worst is happening,
Only this time we’re not dreaming
The faithful are gathering,
Holding hands and praying
The tainted are bargaining,
Taking anything that can be taken
The weak are jumping off buildings,
Leaving blood on the pavement
Large scale of suicides
Whether by knife, gun, or hanging
It’s anarchy out there
And it has only begun
I’m damned to the flames
Because my sins can’t be undone
.you forget that.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
roses have thorns;
a prick of the
skin will tell you
that you're holding
her too tight
I AmI am single,I Am1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
but I am loved.
I am not a genius,
but I am intelligent.
I am not breathtaking,
but I have beauty.
I am not a saint,
but I am kind.
To the world,
I am not perfect.
But for someone,
Pros and Cons1. I am not writing a list of things that will make me hate you, as you supposed, but more a list that would help me move on. I always hated how you were very practical that way, even about emotional distress. I am not writing about the trouble with you being your incorrigible logic, your lack of tact.Pros and Cons1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
2. I am not writing this because I have a habit of doing what you say, and perhaps, just maybe this would give me closure.
3. I am not going to write about how beautiful your mouth is, and how it seems like something that would have been kisses by an angel.
4. I am not going to write about how your voice tremors when you speak of loneliness.
5. I am not going to write about how you are worthy of songs and dances and plays to be written for your lack of wonder at war, sex or alcohol, you aren’t that interesting.
6. I am not going to write about the day you sat me down and dragged me down with you, just so you could complain about how much I loved angel wings and sketches of pretty e