Young Writers Society

11. how to take too much

i'm crying again:
each step was too much for my heart,
beating faster and harder to get just a little further
but in the end, my knees gave out. i crumbled and
the blood stopped pumping, so the only roar left in my ears
is silence. nothing left, no more running,
so the thoughts i couldn't outrun consumed me.

by now you can't even recognize me anymore
i'm a spectator in my own body, a puppet on strings,
bending to the will of the demons in my mind.
they feast off my misery, live off my suffering,
pushing me further and further down the spiral
until i don't know where i end and they begin.

but they grow tired of me --
it's been too long, it's gotten too easy to pull me back
to use me in their rotten game. but you. you're too close
your heart too pure, and with arms wrapped around me
i infect you too, coating my sharp words with their poison
knowing the pain it will bring but too far gone to stop it.

(and if you leave me too, i'll understand. after all
these demons were just me the whole time.)

12. how i wake up in the morning

my heart drops, my body shocked
by the quiet noise snatching me from my slumber.
my eyes barely open, i'm moving on instinct
to silence the sound threatening to rouse my mind
in hopes of quickly sinking back into the darkness of my dreams.

(if i take too long, my mind might wake
and i'll be thrown into the reality of another day.
if only ten more minutes was enough to ready me.)

13. how to know you’re dreaming of the wrong thing

my memories are on reruns,
never ceasing to show me the next moment
of a life i can barely remember living,
and i've gotten so stuck watching them
(being consumed by them) that
i forget the camera is still rolling,
and the moments right now are slipping away.

it's like i'm a ghost,
walking through time two years ago,
so caught up in the emotions, the thoughts,
that i can't bring myself to remember
that i'm still alive right now.
and if i don't wake up,
everything might get lost forever.

14. how to keep moving

and i take one more step.
my breath is loud in my ears, hot in my mouth,
and my muscles are creaking, stretching, crying
out through pores in my skin, making my hands sticky
yet somehow they're still dry and cracked and red.

some days i can only see red, like the sky at dusk or dawn
or more like a wildfire roaring around me, heated winds
whipping my hair, my skin, sending ash in my face,
down my throat, into my nose (it won't come out).
i'm crying but the only way out is through.

to get through, i have to keep moving
and i take one more step.

15. how to know i'm lost

sometimes i want to look up at the sky
and ask the moon how she shines so brightly
even when all the other stars are so far away.
how does she know when to bare her soul
or when to quietly, gracefully fade away?
where does she find the strength
to climb the lonely sky each and every night
to light the path for everyone else who is lost
like me?

16. how to know you're here

do you ever wonder
what happens to the world when you close your eyes?
even with your hand gripped in mine
or your heart beating under my fingertips,
how can i be certain that your atoms
don’t mix with the dwindling starlight
in an invisible supernova of existence
only to reassemble when my eyes meet yours again?

i can only trust you
that your words assure me of your presence,
just as the weight of your arm on my shoulders
brings me the comfort that you’re here with me
for a little while.

17. how to be a perfectionist

the page is empty.

my mind -- it keeps wandering, floating off in every direction
stretched so thin it's almost translucent over my eyes
and my fingers shred through the thoughts with just a touch,
reminding me that there is something i must do, some place
where i must train my focus and create.

the page. it's empty.

maybe it's easier not to think, to just stand up, to pace,
to let my thoughts pace for me, listen to their quiet footsteps
match my rising breaths and ask myself, where do i want to go?
the answer is anywhere, but my feet always take me back here,
remind me that i have no where else to go.

the pages are empty.

i can't convince myself that the pain of tearing out my thoughts--
the agony of pasting them for the world to see (for me to see)--
is less than the pain of walking on the leftover glass shards
from the failed thoughts that crumbled under the pressure
of never ending scrutiny.

the pages stay empty.

18. how to feel optimistic sometimes

every morning, i miss the sunrise,
but the sun still smiles at me when i wake
to glittering lights gleaming back at me.
and i smile knowing that
there is always something bright,
even if it's waiting for me behind the clouds.

19. how it feels on your own

there is static in my ears
and i can't remember if everyone hears the world
like it's a million miles away, moving further
each passing second. and it's impossible to ask
over the roar, leaving me utterly speechless.

20. how to forgive

sunflowers were my mother favorite.
her childhood was spoiled with memories of sunflower fields,
freshly bloomed in the heart of summer, grass up to her ankles
as she waded between their giant, leafy arms. often, she was alone
with her thoughts, with the wind swaying those giant stalks.
and she told me that she thought a lot about those families of flowers
almost identical, bundled together, growing from the same soil,
all with golden manes or crowns, just peeking up at the sun
in the hopes of growing a little stronger the next day.

i'd always thought sunflowers were about love,
from the "he loves me" to the "he loves me not"s
until its petals littered my feet, and all that was left was its soul
and i still didn't know the answer to how to feel better about love.
(especially when that love cut into your already scarred heart)
but sitting among those flowers, gazing at the rolling hills
filled to the brim with beautiful flowers grasping at the same sky
showed me that love is less about the number of petals on a sunflower
and more about loving those you surround yourself with.

21. how i think about those who hurt me

i don't think about you much anymore,
but when i do a seed of sadness burrows into my brain,
its tangled roots twisting around the neurons in my spine
creeping down like a cough burning my lungs
until it sprouts, lodged in my heavy heart.

i'm looking back at those memories through a frosty window pane,
my frozen-over tears staining my irises, leaving a tint of blue
over every memory that once warmed my heart.
but the winter is cold and dark and endless,
as a blizzard settles over my mind.

my arms are numb, muscles are freezing,
so it's hard to dig into my chest and pull out the festering weeds,
knowing that there is nothing else to do about them--
you're gone anyway, and the others are too--
so i wait out the cold and hope for warmer days soon.

TW: house fire, trauma, anxiety
(context: this is an event that happened about 3 years ago, and everyone involved is safe now. no one was injured, so all that's left now is memories that come back to me sometimes.)

22. how to never forget

the smell is overwhelming. chemical reactions
trigger in my brain, flooding my muscles with adrenaline, cortisol,
my heart pumping from the presence of perceived threats
that no one else even thinks about

because to you it's just
"someone having a barbecue" or
"a fire pit in someone's backyard"
or something else innocuous

but to me it's my toes sinking into the uncut grass,
flecks of dirt coating the soles of my feet
because the ground is so dry -- it hadn't rained in days --
and because i didn't have enough time to grab shoes.

it's my Nintendo DS and iPhone filling my pockets,
the last things i might still own, one to distract me from reality
and the other pulling me back to it with calls from
family, friends, and 911 operators.

it's the sweat rolling down on my neck, my back, my arms
from the sheer adrenaline, leaving my muscles still shaking,
or maybe from the unrelenting heat of a sweltering summer day,
but i'm cold as i sit and watch the flames swallowing my home.

it's the overpowering smell of burning plastic,
mixed with ash and soot from the wooden frame--
or maybe it's the smell of the smoldering trees--
that lingers in the streets weeks after it's over.

and now the passing smell of fire clings to my hair,
but even if we're able to just walk by and
you assure me that i'm safe now,

it's impossible to forget when i wasn't.

23. how to be anxious

it's a little overwhelming,
not one particular thing just all of it--
the breathing, the moving, the thinking,
the wondering when is it supposed to get better
i've been hoping for a better day for so long
but...

sorry.

it goes on. the sun rises and sets,
and the moon rises and sets,
and the stars still twinkle at night
even if they're hidden by dark clouds
that look so fluffy in the day time.

maybe tomorrow will be easier,
just like i wish each day.