Young Writers Society

tacenda xiv

collect my scattered thoughts and
sew them up;
tattered rags might yet make
whole cloth.
maybe that can stop the
shreds of memory
from ghosting in and out.

stitch these strands
into your heart
so that when things fall apart
there’s something left to
remember me by.
for I, too, have felt the
needle prick
of your threads being woven
between mine.

so miss me, kiss me,
hold me close,
circle my wrist in twine.
for it only takes a pair of
scissors, sharp
(and a hurting heart)
to cut me loose.

I am lost.

I have so many words for you,
Yet they feel…
Lacking.

I suppose I may say
I was born with a crown,
And though that is true,
Though some call me regal,
It shines copper, not gold,
And my kingdom
Is of one.

I still hold my title,
But I lack a throne —
I never truly had one.
The people expected
A glorious reign,
Like that you’d see
In the fantasy novels I read.
The deposition came quickly
When reality turned out to be
Too much.

I’m content in my castle of sorrow.
After all, shouldn’t a child of winter befriend the rain
When the sun has little love for him?

I am my own knight.

…

You came to me on the day I finally ascended —
The day the world recognised me as sovereign.
(The day of the emperor, no less.)
We only met after midnight,
For wolves are nocturnal creatures,
Lone or not.
You didn’t mind.

My harlequin knows me well;
You captivated me in an instant.
He meant to bring colour to my life,
But even he could not predict
How bright my days with you would be —
How drab my days without.

Your journey was my own.
…My journey was my own.

You understood me like no-one else,
And I understood you like no-one else,
Yet…
Do we know each other?
Truly?

You must realise I miss you,
But you must also realise why I stay away.

Grey dawn lamented your passing
And promised your return.
You healed the moon,
But the sky still grieves.

Seek me by the weeping stars.

​I first heard the news
​choking on your spit
​in a cathedral of trees.
​
​Hormonal me didn't know how to french kiss
​(intimacy and i had been divorced),
​so my vision started to black.
​
​For a brief moment, I witnessed a forest fire;
​where we were swallowed by heat, and
​our bones left to flame out in time.
​
​You told me what it meant.
​That i feared God.
​​Dogs can't eat all my lexapro.
​
We decorated twin-size coffins
​in different cities and futures
​far from where we carved ourselves into,
​
​And inevitably, those moments will wilt
​with the hometown around it.
​I still hear the news;

A church bought the land
where we first kissed.
They're building a ghost.

It has steel beams for arms,
but no weight on my lungs.

The day of our love fades into night
I hear my heart sing in the quiet
Be still and embrace these shadows
Tell the stars a victory has been won
For they are they alone understand the scars
Let the darkness seep into your soul
Be reformed by the twilight and rejoice
Sing in triumpth to the moon
Dance a dance only the solo know
For the tears, the wounds the despair
Are the despair, the wounds, the tears,
Of victory.

For Laughing

You lie on your bed resembling hope
You put on some Lenny Bruce.
This night is for laughing.
Feel those wings grow by each chuckle
Sparks flurry at each instance of growth,
Your bed is on fire now but you smile at the ceiling
There used to be pictures up there, not anymore,
You wince as her face sinks into yours.
Things aren't where you'd like them to be anymore.
The fire is spreading, yearning for connection,
You don't care like you never did,
Maybe if you had taken her seriously she would've stayed
You laughed at her problems.
Well, tonight you can laugh without any risk of regret.
The table's burning, the photos(connection) are in the drawer
It's all that's left of someone who left you,
But these wings of yours have grown too heavy
You can't move.
The audience laughs.

my skull is an echo chamber shrouded in black veils,
cradling in its bowl the ropes of my mind
nothing more
nothing less;
an oasis of the heart where lies throb
like fingers pinched in small places
and toes squeezed in tight spaces.

at the butcher's, i wield a meat cleaver that whispers
against the rounds of my thighs and sings like
water on glass -
and sharply.
in the mirror, i slice like deli meat
the ropes unravelling quickly
with heart sweet, small, and sickly.

i.
dark cyan tastes like catching rain drops,
seeing curious shapes in the clouds: love,
love, love, and something else i've read about
and laughing because they all look like storms
and the air is too humid for my hair to lie flat.

ii.
dark cyan tastes like shampoo held in your mouth,
sharp and soap-scrubbed, like when your mother
caught you spitting curse words, trying them out
on your tongue to see how they'd land, you forget
what they mean, but not the taste of repentance.

iii.
dark cyan tastes like frigid april river water,
biting through dead minnows, trying not to drown,
full-immersion baptism and the preacher dropped you
sinking to the river floor, you become an abandoned ship
a vessel of empty bodies and floating souls.

Compartmentalizing

We belittle the area a thought controls,
when it holds a bit less, weighs a bit more.
Because it’s easier to be partin wholes

that become too big to fit in loopholes.
Turn the lights off on it, have a loud snore,
we belittle the dream a thought controls.

It hurts your mind-lions reduced to foals—
caged up to be displayed at the fore.
Because it’s easier to be a part in wholes,

in the collected shrieks of corrected souls.
Stepping in to clean those cages is a chore,
we belittle the life a thought controls.

Picking half wins to giving up some goals,
fearing the schism waiting behind the door,
because it’s easier to be parting holes.

Putting the cages on display like a store,
sentences parted unnaturally before
we belittle the area a thought controls,
‘cause it’s easier to be apart in wholes.

Insecticide

The black and white, burning edges of my face
separate like stacks of paper
in a backyard bonfire. Quick flame that diminishes,
ash that flakes away
and a gust of wind that whispers knowingly
into a web of sticks. My body is next
as I throw myself heavy into the heat of it all;
lips widen as the gas escapes
and the insects crawl out from within me.
This is about killing myself
and setting my thoughts on fire. This is about
sleeplessness and morphing
into the rear-view mirror of a hotboxed Ford Taurus.
It's hotter than I can handle. I guess I already knew
how this would end: just the memory of your face
and a dark blue sky full of insects that scream.

i. of sadness and other shunned things


the sea is meant to be drunk up in a goblet:
one made of broken shards of memory,
of love roughened by years of sharp words.
I have not mended my pieces yet.

I have yet to take a sip of the sea,
but no: I ache to forget. I ache to turn
and run and run up the steepest mountains
to hide from what savage truths
the tides will speak into my ear.

(I will tell you what the sea tastes of:
of salt that stings on forgotten wounds,
of sadness and other shunned things.)