Young Writers Society

if it’s your voice i’m hearing then
i’d like to apologize first, before
i start crying and ask you when
i’ll next see you without a door

wooden or metal tall in between
us both, even if you’re a spirit
giving me hopes that will wean
away like the sun with every visit

but can i still ask if you’ve missed
anything from here, tiptoeing around
whether you’ve missed the blissed
days in may before spring drowned

i don’t know what month is today,
and i won’t know anyway because
i cut up every calendar that say
how time passes but will never pause.

(bogo shipda = i miss you)

have you ever stepped, slipped on a train,
or on the tracks, letting your head sink
and closing, shutting your eyes so your brain
opens instead and listens for the brink,
whatever final thing will make everything
click and make sense of an empty drink?

maybe we are imprisoned, to stay here forever
in the spring and winter, you with the pink roses
and beach waves, too strong a barrier to sever
and either the flowers’ smells that hurt our noses,
or the snow, whereas i’m in an ever-cold winding lever
of white, seeking warmth, which the weather opposes

but i swear i’ll be there at that last station,
with your favorite flowers clutched in my hands,
and i’ll eat only some of the last cake ration
so you’ll smile and take off your rubber bands
to wind the purple ones you named elation
around our pinkies, and meet our last stands.

if two lovers can fall into such a sorrow-dipped story,
how can we fight off our own demons and our fate?
for we can promise love constructs, teary on the lorry,
but there isn’t a way to keep from lingering in our hate,
not unless we toss our hearts, stained red by our hurry,
once the last campfire shortens to embers and wait,

wait for what, you might have asked, a hand reaching
towards me, reminiscent of running through grass
barefoot, or hearing your laughter amidst screeching
from our parents, when we drove six hours after class
to get that soft, blue bouquet someone was preaching
would grant us luck, but the petals split like glass

and in my hoodie, we laid the shards out, one by one,
imagining that our fingers caught on the sharp edges, for
we were only young in that breath of a moment, done
with being ruled by the archaic overseers that only tore
at us, at our fragile connection that couldn’t be outdone
by anyone besides ourselves, for we had barely begun.

you left me gasping, grasping onto strings, digging in
the material, creasing over my skin, criss cross pain
but i don’t know whether to curse and hate you, bin
all of our happy halo-effects memories, leave a stain

in the back of my mind whenever i try to think of fun
times or trips or days and not when i tripped five times at
the old softball field, spilling the last expensive mini bun
on the ground, and you spun your feet, like an acrobat

except you tripped and fell on your face, and your blood
still stains that dirt to this very day, right by the stupid
chain link fences that never did anything besides flood
the seats with screams and shouts that left games ruined

do you ever think of that? do you ever want to turn back
the times, it hasn’t been that long, right, we can start again,
restart, turn the clock, break through your chest and attack
whatever entrapped you in their cage, i’ll break the bargain

(i won’t give up.)

i never thought we’d face each other here, on
opposite sides, a struggle between pushing
away, sinking into the sand before dawn,
and begging a deity to prevent an ambushing

of every song i scribbled out, and every image
you painted on a blank canvas, straight through
every neuron, fueling a one-person scrimmage
in my head, to stop a flashback even if it’s true

cause i don’t want the truth, not when it means
letting go of your hand, this hand i fell in love
with, when i grabbed your fingers in our teens
and our palms fit more perfectly than a glove,

but that feeling disappointed like the flower
patches do every year when the drought dries
out the grass and leaves brown dirt all over,
but i never thought you would ignore my cries.

(i’m [not] ready to let go.)

instead of a heart attack, or a broken heart,
is it possible to simply have a heart tear,
your fragile muscle still beating but apart,
for when someone said goodbye and their
footsteps stopped echoing, it's your fault
and thus you stew in anger built from fear

for if this person could walk away, without
much of a worry for anyone not with their name,
how can you ever declare yourself safe, doubt
that you'll ever be able to open your heart, shame
seeping in, were they only with you for clout,
and so you shield yourself from the blame

so walk away, you remind yourself the second
time around, walk away first so they read along
the slope of your back and ignore their beckon
to forgive and shake of feelings that don't belong
because your heart hurts worse each check-in
and you can't push your limbs to stand strong.

(you're my tear.)

it wasn't something i should have asked
i recognize that now, but still it rests on my
tongue, what i can't turn away, too basked
in that sensation, of the wind asking why
i stood still, with my hands outreaching past
me and past you, past what made me try

so hard every day for a year, to keep us both
happy and settled, so i didn't ask if this is what
we're required, layers representing our oath
we belonged to, no matter every fight that
begged me to look past our invisible growth
and see through that pale, thin, screen, flat

against our skin, not meant to be viewed
with a naked eye, but my questioning brought
this fact to our obscure surface, skewed
though our emotions may be, in this drought
of tears from our air-snared arguments, brewed
in this hole we've dug, with a single thought

[maybe this is the best we'll be.
is this enough for you, for me?]