Young Writers Society

Writing poetry while I decide whether or not to kill myself. Respect is earned, not warranted.

NaPo 2019: cherry coke and the indiscriminate hippie archives

Content warning: I'm dealing with topics like sexual assault, suicide, self-harm and abuse in this thread. Also using language that might be intense or offensive to some. If that stuff doesn't sit well with you, be passin' on through.

Michigan flesh wounds - 4.1.20

You stand in awe, watching my face drip
Into the bathroom sink. The skin
Slides right off the bone, like
Passenger vans on black ice in the dark.
This time, the damage is done.
We never eat, we never sleep;
This is how we know that god
Left us long ago, and I’m
Pressing my face up against the wall
To rip it off like a band-aid. I’m imagining
You in a passenger van
And me on my knees, as if
It ever really happened.
Maybe it’s a nighmare, maybe just
A wet dream. Either way,
There’s a ghost in the corner
And that ghost is you.
You close your mouth, finally,
And crunch down on the flies.
There’s no more kissing bruises
When they turn to open flesh wounds,
Stinging in salty Michigan air.
Sinking feet stain the shoreline,
Softly until the bitter end.
I’ll die right here
If that’s what you want. Just know that
I didn't meant it like that.
You really do have no idea.

Sydney the dead dog - 4.2.20

We bury the family dog in the backyard,
Pushing daisies six weeks later;
An agricultural opportunist from six feet under.
I put it in my will to bury me beside him.

It’s hard enough being alive,
Let alone an absolute dirtbag. The truth is,
I’m madly in love with the earth
And the way she swallows bodies
So we don’t have to deal with the decay.
It’s the kind of hurt that’s only there
If you push down on it. I guess that’s the only way
That any of it makes sense to me.

I can never decide what’s worse:
Having to wear a seatbelt, or listening
To the perpetual monotonous ding
Reminding me to buckle up.
It doesn’t matter either way
If I’m half alive to begin with. Maybe
It makes sense to just get it over with.

Sydney was a shitty dog, and I was a shitty kid.
Full circle, four-legged
And biting the hand that beats us.

Xenia, ohio - 4.3.20

there’s a saltwater film
over the bodies in xenia, ohio;
shrink wrapped skin over chipping bones
contorted in weird ways
spread out across fields of corn
and debris. there’s kids
pushing strollers and pissing in paint cans
parentless and angry,
running and running
with nowhere to go.
the wind blows backwards a stench of decay:
our fathers and mothers
who took the fall for our existence.
the older we get, the harder it gets
and we try to move on but we can’t.
that whirring tornado runs rampid and feral
all through our minds, the badlands
and the boneyards of this town.

That ending to Sydney the Dead Dog is so good! It's a really powerful poem.

Beautiful body that burns - 4.4.20

The gates of hell rise and fall
Flickering nebular glow just beneath the surface
As I step into the infernal ether.

The killer defiles the dog, same as the sun sets
And Lucifer is walking on a string:
“666” in the yard at the top of his punctured lungs.
There are four dissimilar ways to die
I guess I thought at least one could be beautiful;
Carving a pentagram into my wrist
With only my fingernails is a daunting enough task,
Staining the whole world a pinkish hue.

We are infinite, God is red. There’s a fire that lives
Eternal underground, and it hungers as I fall through,
A beautiful body that burns.

Smells like quaranteen spirit - 4.4.20

how can i be good to other people when i cant even be good to myself? im fifteen and im still learning that drugs don’t make you cool and that being sober fucking sucks. today i just wanna cry into my pillow until i die. i don’t want it to hurt, i just want it to end. the girl i fell in love with is kissing other people and im getting stoned in the backyard alone. all i wanna do is push people away, away. i dont wanna be seen like this by anybody. i’m fifteen and im wondering if i should kill myself and hide the body.

I don't have a title for this and I don't really like it but I woke up to it written in my notebook so I figured why not - 4.5.20

Do you really wanna hurt me? Rip me open
Just to watch me bleed? I guess you deserve it
You’ve been holding off for so long. The picture it paints
May not be pretty, but getting off never is.

Notice how my stomach caves in when
I lay on my back? Solutional cave in the flesh
A party trick that will forever go unnoticed.
I would’ve covered my own face
Had you not done it for me, to say breathing
Is just a suggestion. I think I get it now.

I have really small hands, yeah. You like
To point that out. You have a really small dick
But I never say anything. I guess I don’t see
The point. But I think I get it now.

So much less than a whore, so much more
Than my sister. This is not how I wanted
To spend my fucking day.

Insecticide - 4.6.20

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 already knew
how this would end, just the memory of your face
and a dark blue sky of insects that scream.

I didn't finish a poem today but here's something I pulled out of my ass without context - 4.7.20

She’s learning that this world
Can only take her as far as it is wide.
Heavy duty brain, spinning machine
That keeps her alive and suffering.
This cannot be what God intended.

Depression nap acid trip - 4.8.20

The world can be so loud.
I’d close my eyes if I had any
And pray that the sirens
Would just shut the hell up.

You never know when
You’re going to have to be strong.
Like when you get your period
In the middle of math class
Or when it’s between tomorrow
And a handful of adderall.

In a transcendent coma
I’m talking to god at the club
And he’s taking me home
After I promise to be good.
The room just spins
And I shoot myself in the head.

But gravity exists and pick up lines
Don’t pay for funerals.
I’m alive and breathing same as
The sirens sing in the distance
To the key of nodding off
In the back of an ambulance.

That was the shortest poem ever! - 4.9.20

the end.

Shedding a layer before i unwind - 4.10.20


the broken doors creak and moan
as i pass through, swinging my fists
from left to right.

there’s a religiousness about
the sway of an angry body
that separates warpath from black heart.
it could be the house, it could be
the warmer climate. whatever it is
i don’t feel so alone here.

these trees don’t even move
but it’s so goddamn windy.
this is the kind of bullshit
i’m talking about.

Benadryl birthday boy/my balls itch - 4.11.20

i can’t sleep. you don’t care.
you’re half a world away.
this is what it takes to be a man.
i’m laying in bed half naked
thinking of you:
the sunburnt skin on your shoulders
peeling away like tires peel out
on the freeway in the afterglow
of a honeymoon sky. your freckled skin
and the seven deadly sins
and you’re screaming your head off
in the kitchen. cars and trucks
and divorce papers and stuff.
i can’t sleep. i miss you. you know that
25 is a big deal for me
and you didn’t even wish me
a happy birthday. and i can’t sleep
and i’m hungry, but
you can’t take benadryl on
an empty stomach. fuck it i guess
i’ll stay up all night crying.
anyway, my balls itch and it feels like
i’m dying.

Aces - 4.12.20


we are women of class;
women of culture
with cigarettes held
index and middle finger
power stance, like in the movies
up against the wall.

this is where we stand,
you can find someplace else.
i think we earned it
or something. 1940, 1960.
i don’t know. fight me.

we could ash ‘em on the wall
or just smoke ‘em
til they fall. this is no longer
about justice. it comes down
to revenge.