Young Writers Society

7. starlit gutters

Author's note: based on this quote by Oscar Wilde: "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at stars." (did I write a series of haikus in iambs with a random 9-syllable line at the end? it's possible ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )

this sun(f)lo(v)(w)er turns her head to the
sun, seeds crispening like marshm(e)a(d)(ll)ows
under the warm golden syrup that seeps
through a late summer sky
to flood her chlorophyl[l

over] and over she always tries to
keep herself awake when the sun sets,
but always her petals hang heavy
and her head sinks like precipitation-weighed
clouds into her neck, leaves
mu(r)d(ere)d(y) in the dark;

always she just misses the (st)(m)ar(k)s
and must listen to their message on the dew-
-netted answering machine in the morning

9. not every jar holds jam

don't be a girl who cries jam every time
she finds another jar on rusted shelves
(and never pauses first to wipe the grime
obscuring the reflection of herself).

with fingers folded like a serviette
she crams her hand into the squishy space -
discovering too late the glass won't let
her naive fists escape with this much grace.

the condensation of her sweat collects
(like morning dew at every hour of
the day) around this tightening jam jar's neck,
yet stills she thinks it fits just like a glove.

she never learns the way of breaking free
is smashing jars until she finds her key.

@Spearmint awww thank you so much!! <333 I'm so glad you felt like the VHS poem was a puzzle, I was thinking it might just be very disorganized and scattered haha xD

@SilverNight <333 aaah yes blackout poems and I have a sorta love-hate relationship @_@ they're always a fun challenge though!! SADFASDKJ THANK YOU, much love for you as well c:

1) i am weeping cats and dogs but they all skitter away, nails raking against an impartially tiled floor, and i am left with no one to bury my face in the fur of.
2) The more i try to find consolation in the fluffiness of a cat's neck the more hair i breathe into my nostrils.
3) Why do cats seem to think their tongues are sandpaper and my skin lumber to be smoothed down?
4) And maybe i agree, and maybe i would assist them, but my tears reduce all the sandpaper i can get ahold of to a grit-and-paper-pulp mush.
5) i cannot cure myself of these splinters so i beg others to (they scrape away freckles without hesitation).
6) Freckles are constellations that ride on goosebumps - perhaps i'd find they form the outline of a goose if i could be bothered to pay enough attention.
7) i've heard it said that life is like an ocean (or was that just me remembering the hollow clanging of things i've told myself?);
8) sailors sail life with a compass and the stars to guide them but i let my stars fade to ghosts upon my forearms,
9) so now i must search someone else's nose and cheeks for the connect-the-dots of a sea monster. And i may never find it because you can't see the constellations splayed across your own face, skin like a canvas stretched across a sloping frame, and
10) i can't navigate by a mirror image.

cw: implied violence and just overall...absurdity?


my empty stomach is
a small pudgy child's fist,
finger rumbling together in a plead
for something sweet.
mama says we can go to
the bakery across the street
(the street that frays at the edges
into gutters and icing leaves).

the side entrance is skinny,
foreboding in a friendly way, frame
standing straight like cinnamon sticks.

we take off our shoes and
step into the entryway - a long
slender hallway with a conveyer belt
for a floor. a customer service
human glides towards us, nose lifted
like she smells candied flesh on the wind.

"socks off please, barefoot from here on in."
we are conveyed past employees
with sugar-glazed gazes and deposited
in front of a granite counter.
there is a woman ahead of us in line and
mama tilts her head impatiently.
toes tap the surgical tiles like
warm milk bubbling on the stove.

then it is our turn; the cashier nods us over.
"a tray of cookies please" mama says.
"that will be a million." the cashier's voice
is swimming in dissolved tootsie rolls.

mama frowns and reaches for her
twizzler wallet, and i say:
"mama no, that is too much.
this is the wrong bakery.
she thinks you want me chopped up
into curly lasagna bits and baked into dough
and my blood dehydrated into sprinkles."

"oh." mama says, and clarifies this
misunderstanding: "no thank you,
just a tray of regular cookies please."

she pays and we leave, my heels
catching on the hardened caramel grout.
"they shouldn't be allowed to do that," i say
absentmindedly, cookies clenched now in
the pudgy fist as we stroll back
down along the fraying black licorice road.

"it's alright dear," mama murmurs,
squeezing my hand, "as long as it's
consensual killing."

i miss knowing the lines in someone else's palm
better than the back of my own hand.

@alliyah aw thank you for the lovely comment <3 I've really been enjoying digging into kind of unpleasant imagery and I'm glad you're finding it effective / interesting!

Aaah yes I was really proud of my latest title - often times I really struggle coming up with an interesting and just generally good title but I felt like that one fit perfectly ^^