#maybepoetry

[the-paper-system]

I wrote a thing

At first I was a toddler,

Then I became two,

Next I was a toy,

And the count went up to five.

Something snapped,

six and seven,

Seven and I fought,

But we were no match.

Then I was a broken toy,

Unfit for the front lines,

Sent to the back, whilst our numbers grew and grew.

I didn't.

I am no longer a toy.

Just broken.

[empathyundertow]

A cigrette liked my work and I just thought how wonderful that metaphor was considering the context of my writing

[ziruipoetry]

wonderment

in science we learned that atoms cannot be changed by chemical reactions. that the electrons can jump around but the essence of the element, the core, remains a constant. the first thing i did after class was to find an exception: radioactivity. nuclear fusion of hydrogen nuclei into helium powers the sun and the stars. if the sun is powered by an exception, how can we remain constant?

i’ve always had a fascination with the sun. when i was four my favorite dress had a pale yellow tutu. once i wore it at sunset and it attracted (what seemed like) ten thousand tiny fruit flies. they clung at the lace and burrowed underneath the intricate layers, frantically flickering around my body as if i was the last lifeline stringing along all ten thousand bodies. i eventually outgrew that dress, but i could never outgrow the sun.

when i was five i jumped so high that even the moon couldn’t catch me, cracked my head and added a flare of red upon the coffee table. i laughed myself into stitches. one, two, three, four lines distinct from my dark roots. six: i fell off my bicycle. scraped my knees in the middle of the road and bled a memoir. i learned synonyms at age eight, how beginnings blur into endings and how stories are infinite. sequels were just never as good.

we want, we need, to define everything. label everything. fine lines – all that’s between my best friend’s wrists and the boy who sat beside me on the train. i wear my skin like a second-rate apartment. a chameleon who doesn’t know how to change colour, stuck in transparent. every year right before school starts i ask my mom to take me to the mall. “you’ve barely grown” she remarks. i know.

i remember my first tube of mascara. i liked to think that i had harnessed the night itself into a blue plastic tube. you don’t need to die to be reborn. sometimes all it takes is a sports bra and a faded receipt. for the next year my friends and i coated our lashes with that cheap black goop, sneaking into the school bathrooms before class because god forbid our parents found out. smudges lined our fingertips like trophies for of course we had picked the waterproof edition. 12 year olds tend to cry for anything and at everything.

middle school:  i wore too much black and stared too long at girls with cigarettes dangling from their fingertips. girls who always seemed to be whispering with friends in bathrooms i tried to go into no matter what time of day and a shiny belly button piercing beneath their barely-there shirts. girls with hair dyed so bright that the rest of the world was reduced to black-and-white. what my overindulgent hopes thought was a new beginning turned out to be a “phase”. to my parents: if the moon has four phases a month i can too.

sprinting clocks, there must be some mistake. there are no ends derived from my beginnings, simply the after of before. exploiting memories i haven’t yet developed, i replace my belongings as though they were all pandora’s boxes. locked and sealed before the program has even ran its full course. i’m the marathon runner that quits a step away from the finish line, the one man band at my own funeral. i begin and begin and leave everything overturned in my wake.

wonderment: is it the same for you?

[cathedralofcats-blog]

you ransacked my cupboard, eaten everything in my pantry. my dishes lie dirty in the sink, your gross hands drenched in my happiness have left stains on my walls. you have touched and discarded me as if i am trash. as if i am not worthy.

an ode to something

[cyclesofsara-blog]

Second grade Started becoming Brittanie My mom wanted me to be someone else I never felt comfortable in my skin Starting new was hard I didn't feel like a person I lied to be liked Because I didn't know what else to say What would it feel like  If my mom liked me the way I was If my dad listened without preaching If he stood behind me- not against me I might want to listen I might want to learn I might choose who I let hurt me I might choose who my friends were I might think the world was okay Something happened that I can't recall Where She died  And her corpse has been choosing everything The world became dark and scary Thoughts because twisted I can still be the little girl that you all liked so much Pleasing, sweet, obedient Playing with Elle No one let me play super smash I got one try All you did was laugh I snapped once She got to defend herself, briefly  I was ridiculed I was teary Shelley didn't like me- I was clingy I wanted to be loved Kyle wouldn't look at me But rather refer to me, as a joke I tried too hard I was always upset and no one knew why I didn't know why It's come down to whether or not I'm brave enough to let her speak again

unknown

[empathyundertow]

Well

Do you like or dislike my writing? Care to share why?

[uneaten-dumplings]

truth or lie

when actions become the lies and the words become the truths, what can you believe?

[freelancedreamer1]

I remember another time.

because now all is bitter and angry and wrong and not the way it was supposed to go by @freelancedreamer1