Antimony alloy

antimony (chemistry): a trivalent and pentavalent metalloid element with atomic number 51 that commonly occurs in a brittle, metallic, silvery white crystalline form and that is used especially in alloys, semiconductors, and flame-retardant substances

antimony (alchemy): represents the wild/animalistic parts of human nature and is sometimes symbolized by the wolf

alloy: a metallic substance composed of two or more elements, as either a compound or a solution




Goals:

• write as many poems as I can. at minimum, five poems
• write at least one structured poem (e.g., sonnet, limerick, villanelle, etc.)
• write at least one silly/unserious poem (i cannot be sad all the time! i MUST not! for my own sanity!)
• Theme: none ("alloy" invokes a mixture, and a mixture it will be), probably
• Not a goal but a request: if anyone is actually reading this and wishes to comment, please spoiler it. thank you.

Poems:

• A Self-Portrait; Or, The First Poem, Potentially Of Several
• Last night my friend went catatonic
• if I see you tomorrow
• For context
• Animals at the end of the night
• The aftermath
• Dear friend,
• Poem for an ill-advised crush
• unwrapping

A Self-Portrait; Or, The First Poem, Potentially Of Several
(and a middling one, for the author is not a poet, despite the fact that she is engaged in NaPo)

This is a short, shallow poem about
a woman mature in body, not mind;
a girl who has thus far survived without
confronting the mem'ries she's left behind;

a lady with eyes dry as autumn creeks
and palms warm with blood; from her soft hands slide
beads of sweat, replacing salt on her cheeks,
as she tries to forget, or run, or hide;

a maiden fair (in skin if not in face)
with a love for staring into the blue
of a sky or a screen, a novel case
of vagueness, weakness, and indolence true...

(Who wrote those three stanzas? You've likely guessed:
the subject, whose feelings are still suppressed.)

Last night my friend went catatonic
(which happens from time to time)

It was a sudden slipping into subconsciousness
and a swift sliding sideways, off the blue chair
and into a heap on the soft, dirty carpet.
(The chair was already on the floor, but she did crash into her dresser,
and her cheek was smashed into the floor
and her butt was up in the air.)

I, who had previously been applying an embrace
(in an attempt to grant her some comfort as she sobbed)
while she had been seated, pushed my way half-crawling
across the rug to better assess the situation.
Her hair was dark and long and strewn across her face
but her arm protruded outwards, palm facing up.

I put my hand over hers in an awkward squeezing of fingers
(I never know the right way to offer physical consolation)
and asked if she could move her hand at all; in response,
her index and middle fingertips tapped mine twice.
(I would normally ask if she could blink, but her eyes,
as previously mentioned, were thoroughly obscured.)

This was how our communication was established
(at a rather hasty pace, although I tried to stay calm).
I laid out the ground rules: once for no, twice for yes.
Was she okay? Did she want me to try and move her?
(I was mostly afraid for her neck, bent hard against the dresser.)
All tapped responses indicated that she wanted to stay put.

I attempted to resume my comforting physical contact
when she stirred, scaring me into flinching backwards;
she rolled herself off her neck and the carpet and
re-seated herself next to the blue chair.
(At first I attempted to help pull her upright,
but I almost yanked her arm out of its socket.)

She could talk again, so I asked her how she felt.
She told me that she felt better than she did before.
She said that for that brief moment, ragdolled in the corner,
she had entered a state of unbeing, of not-quite-thinking,
which was a welcome change from her current mental pain.
(As she talked, I once again stationed myself by her side.)

if I see you tomorrow
(we'll both be at the same concert)

if I see you tomorrow, I will consider saying hello
only after suffering a spike in blood pressure
and a surge of adrenaline, which will tell me
to clench my fists, duck my head
and run before you can wave,
or (god forbid) smile at me,
or look me in the eye

god forbid a smile because smiling means that you're happy to see me,
smiling means you've processed who I was to you and accepted
who I currently am, smiling means that you're walking over to me and
asking how my day's been, smiling means I'm smiling back

with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat and a hammer in my chest

I mean who am I kidding, even if I just see you from across the room
I'll feel a hammer in my chest

(if the hammer is a given then why should conversation be optional?)
(that is the question that I will ask myself if I see you tomorrow)

For context
(for the previous poem, and potentially others in the future)

For context,
she was my first
girlfriend, my first-ever
long-term romantic entanglement,
the very first person I could picture kissing
in a church, the first person I could imagine a
life with (blooming into being in some small-city
townhouse), the first person I could imagine loving
for the rest of my life.

For context,
she felt like home.
She made me feel loved
because of who I was and not
in spite of it.

For context,
six days ago
we both cried
and hugged at least four times
not because the end was unexpected,
but because the story was finally over.

Animals at the end of the night
(an acrostic)

After our jubilant gorging upon many a mild poison, the
night air on the return journey had begun to bite and
transform into a burning street-light orange as we,
intoxicated as we were, swayed gaily down the deserted
midnight road and howled songs at the silent, scattered stars
overhead; we prowled as a pack, our movements wild and our minds
nearly feral, reserved rationality replaced by delirious instinct,
yet we were sharp enough to stay the course, to track our way home.

The aftermath
(or, joydark is bad at identifying and processing emotions)

I bring it up in casual conversation.
The people I tell act like my dog died.
One of my friends hugged me. Another one
gave me puppy-dog eyes and extended a sincere offer
for a coffee or a drink in case I "ever wanted to talk to someone".
My mom and my sister and my dad all called me within the same day
when I told them the news, and they said that they were sorry for me,
and they asked me how I was feeling —

Doesn't this happen all the time?
Things don't work out. Relationships fall apart. Life moves on.

It's not like she hurt me.
It's not like she died.
Why would I grieve someone who isn't dead?
Why is everyone acting like I just announced that my grandma keeled over?
My grandma is fine and so is my ex and so am I.

I do not need a shoulder to cry on.
I do not need to cry at all.

Dear friend,
(if you're reading this,)

Yes, I am talking to you.
Not "you" plural. "You" singular. "Tu," if you will.
You know who you are. You know me and I know you.
(Conjugation correction: You knew me and I knew you.
Hell, "friend" is probably a bit generous — I'm sorry for overstepping,
but I didn't want to condescend you by demoting you to "acquaintance."
"Long-lost schoolyard chum," maybe? Or just "a friendly face"?)

I hope you're doing well, but I don't text you to ask
because neither of us like sharing that many details over text.
I check your social media profile from time to time because I remember you fondly
and I want to see how your life's been progressing.
I'm glad you're still acting. You've always been good at it.
You've always been funny and I'm glad you're still making people laugh.
I'm happy it seems like you're happy,
even if Instagram is notoriously rose-colored.

As an update (that you didn't ask for, which is fine, I don't blame you),
I've been doing fine
in the same way a middle schooler tells their parents that they've been doing fine.
I have more friends in college, at least.
I occasionally go to parties (crazy, I know).
Sometimes I even talk out loud about my feelings.

I'd say I miss you
but I don't think either of us has enough room in our lives
to miss an afterimage.

Still —
I understand that when things are buried they often stay buried,
and that is good and likely and natural,
but
if you ever want to do a bit of grave-robbing,
you know where to find me.

Poem for an ill-advised crush
(a stupid attempt at humorous poetry so i can meet my napo goals)

Your eyes are dark and narrow
and your neck is overgrown:
my mind is yours to harrow;
my mind is yours alone.

Your laugh is like a sputter,
your kneecaps creak and moan —
yes, my mind is in the gutter
for my mind is yours alone.

Your upper lip has molted;
your smile is broken bone.
My senses are revolted —
yet my mind is yours alone.