Young Writers Society

i never got to kiss you under the moonlight;
you thought the exchange of saliva triggered my ocd,
but i deal with larger beasts in the middle of the night.
regardless, you hold my hand to point out constellations,
assuring me that my obsessions didn't dictate the universe.

intrusive thoughts are like pop-up ads on a windows desktop,
but i can't change that simile into a metaphor about the stars,
so i'll have to wait for your expert paintings until i pay 100 dollars
for a therapy appointment to remind me how to click the red 'x'.

there's a virus in my operating system that infiltrated every file,
so i want to kiss you under the moonlight atop this hill but i can't.
because i don't want to infect you with my pop-up ads and so i'll
hold your hand as the wet grass soaks my moth-bitten clothes.

maybe one day i'll get this metaphor strai-- WARNING, WARNING,
SYSTEM SHUT DOWN. SYSTEM SHUT DOWN. WARNING.
DO NOT CONTINUE WITH THIS COURSE OF ACTION. YOU ARE
A MONSTER* AND HERE ARE FIVE THOUSAND IMAGES DOWNLOADED
TO YOUR MAINFRAME. YOU CANNOT SLEEP TONIGHT.

hold me during this sleepless night and
hang me next to the constellations when
my body turns to stardust and my brain shatters

i'll take a hammer to the brick walls of this garden,
smashing the barriers you once traced filthy hands over.
the innocent little girl never existed, only a bitter boy without
language to describe the displacement in his body.

the vines that once restricted me to the flowerbed
will be cut off, burned in kerosene, and forgotten.
i'll plant white roses in the red dirt, so i can look
out for traces of your contamination lingering.

i'm kicking you out of my garden, since you never
should have stepped in with your weed-killing boots.
if i want to grow dandelions, then you can't fucking
stop me. get out of my head, my life, my garden.

this body is mine.
you can't touch it.
this garden is mine.
you can't touch it.

one day, i'll reclaim these vines; i'll tattoo them onto
my skin as a reminder of growth, obscuring constriction
to the back shed of my mind midst processed memories.

fuck off. this is mine.

my soul is a commodity,
(that doesn't belong to me)
which i can give away freely.
sacrifice is the only way to gain,
so i'll chip away at my worth until
i'm polished, valuable, and wanted.

perhaps self-identity (for me) is a scam;
it's worth the numbness to chameleon
into an unrecognizable version of myself.

(i'm sorry, i value you.
i'm sorry, i love you.
i'm sorry, but i'm mandated to change.
i don't belong to myself, but i wish i did.
i need to fit into this mold even if it kills me.
i'm sorry, i should have listened.)

i'll package my own self-interests into
U-Haul moving boxes, shove them back
within the closet. you can find my soul at
an Amazon distribution facility, because
i lost the status of shareholder.

free shipping is available.
just order now!

i nearly drowned in a nameless hotel years ago;
i can’t remember how old i was, but i remember
the clear blue water and wanting to scream
with only bubbles coming out.
and i remember the dull acceptance
as i sank to the bottom of the pool.
i was dared by the older kids,
but i was small and ambitious and dumb.
i couldn’t swim, but i yearned for acceptance.
trying to make this memory poetic reminds me
of ginger beer and how it stings the inside of
my nose and how i sputter and gag.
and sometimes i still feel the burning of my throat.
sometimes i push the memory so far down
that it happened to a different child,
even though the memory plays in first person.

this is not the trauma i attend counseling for.

my mind is wiped clean at 12am on every saturday,
with all transgressions fading into the sands of time;
i only hang onto a few stones -- some insignificant,
some which have bruised my body purple and blue.
maybe i'm a robot, but maybe my counselor wants
to suggest "obsessive compulsive personality disorder"
adding to labels of ocd, depression, anxiety, asd, etc.

i plug my brain into the mainframe to watch my worries
be lost to the ocean of forgiveness, embracing the unknown
1s and 0s that fill up the data in my breaking computer.
being controlling isn't my shtick, but it's a debilitating
fear of mine to turn into my dad to turn into my dad to turn
into my dad to turn into him and his suffocating authority.

mission?
do no harm.

i spilled black nail polish on
my good set of bed sheets.
this isn't really a metaphor,
but i can't find the acetone to wash it off.
my hands are blemished too,
because black nail polish is stubborn.

but i'm not going to cry over spilled polish

i bowed before the silver queen in the middle of my roach infested apartment,
my forehead touching stained carpet, a copper roach crawling across my lips.
perhaps my taxes are due, i mused; i licked to catch the insect on my tongue.
her golden scepter pressed against the nape of my neck, spreading glacial fire.

"my child, you have forsaken me. my child, you have forgotten me. my child,
you are a disappointment to our grand elders; you are disgrace personified."
to which i replied, leaning into her haunting words and chilling the softened fire,
"my queen, forgive me. my queen, i remember you. my queen, i'm sorry."

hand me some duct tape,
hold my breath,
recite a prayer,
and i'll do the rest.

bind my limbs,
throw me into the sea,
kill my darlings,
but don't save me

keep me under the heel of your boot,
rip out my hair and call me a genius.
feed me lies of complacency and rewrite
history with your intelligence and authority.

one day i'll break free of these mental chains,
but until then, i'll survive on a diet of half-starved
truths

put this chilled gun to the roof of my mouth,
pull the trigger and shoot out blanks because
i can't get to the finish line in time.
running marathons causes me to
see spots in the forefront of my vision,
but i'll run for the glory of my broken pride
until the spots turn into encompassing darkness

waves strike against the white sand beach,
never ceasing to the familiar lull of childhood.
it's time to toughen up and set signal fires,
forgetting the belated chill of lonely evenings.

i'll spend my next decade hidden with the mothballs,
burying my tear-soaked face into threadbare dresses,
because the outside world is brimming with treachery.

perhaps i'm too anxious for this life, kept quiet by fear;
being out and proud causes hope to mix with dread in
a concoction that no alchemist would rule safe to drink.

maybe i'll lift the vial to my lips when i'm twenty-four
with years of query embroidered into my favorite shirt.

i'll move up north where the green grass grows,
leaving the kelly green behind, stained with phobias.

you carried your death with you
encased in an emerald amulet;
"just in case," you whispered
to the demons inside which
tortured your weighted soul.

Your funeral was August 1st, during a snow storm,
where you were encased inside an obsidian coffin.
I poured crushed beetles on your resting spot, in lieu
of red roses to signify the burning love I extinguished.

We met on January 12th, with the sun knocking on
our weathered backs. You crafted me a necklace of
black centipedes, and I kissed your chapped lips.
Our love could not be kindled in a winter heatwave.

my creaking joints are oiled with my mother's tears,
introducing the reality where steel is not human skin.
i was raised in a smog-choked factory, next to lines of
"real boys" like myself, yearning to learn/speak/cry.

zero-three-two-four-nine is branded on my cool neck,
broadcasting to the world that i'm a failed experiment
left behind to rot in a metal workshop miles out of town.
escape is never an option, so deconstruct me right here.