Young Writers Society

spring leaves us speechless and comatose.
you shudder. i have always been obsessed with
the movements of you; i sigh when you twist and convulse,
vertebrae rolling under my couch.

i can’t feel my jaw,
can’t feel the tip of my nose or my spine.
i bleed inward. i pray for my skull to give way
at the soft parts, implode at the seams.

we would've been forever, i say,
you and i would've been forever.

scars resurface like bodies in the dirt
after it storms. your ribcage is a shelter, a home
that no longer welcomes me.
you can’t get a word in otherwise.

the taste of something foreign
lingers on my lips. i can feel it on my fingertips
like thimbles and glue, heavy and obstructive,
weighed down by water and the scent of her shirt.
i breathe it in. it tastes vile.

i remember sitting next to her
on the basement floor. i take it all in,
buzzing and whirring, limbs numb and useless.
i'd let her touch me if it meant she loved me.
i can see right through it.

i will carry this on my back until
it breaks my collarbones.

i trickle where she needs me
and ooze where she doesn't want me,
blistering, swaying and tripping —

her aura resists against me like magnets,
softening my skin like butter
and pleading with me to keep quiet.
she'd never admit that she's scared,
but she cries when the wind is too strong.

her shell walks beside me.
i cry when i'm scared. abrasive, only in theory.
retribution. i leave parts of me everywhere.

man in boy's clothes on you
like a lotus flower;
this shirt is yours and it doesn't fit right,
unyielding, full of seams that grapple
and nick at your skin.

i can’t picture you anymore. i can only feel
your touch on the small of my back.

poised to take this punch in the gut,
i stand like a statue, weathered and wasting
before you. what is left will remain hard
until i am nothing.

i am ashamed at the stability
of your flesh. your unsure steps mean nothing
when your tongue is all steel and my core
is all worthless, and i feel everything.

the blood rushes to your head.
your eyes stay cold and distant as always.

your lips are softened strips of flesh like mine,
lacerations in the callus. the contrast is hard to ignore.
i remain before you like i'm made of sand;
your eyes wash over me
and i crumble.

when i was four, my mother
still held the tissue to my nose while i blew.

i remember being impressed
that she could put her own hair up.
i traded her kisses for hello kitty stickers
and orange juice, let her wipe my scrapes
when i got hurt.

she taught me to be soft,
so i will be soft until i am brittle.
i can hold barrettes and big-girl cups now,
among other things.

with my back against bark,
i oscillate in anticipation of seeing her.

when our eyes meet,
unsaid words self-utter too late.
each little tiny instance i imagine is
suddenly replaced by flashbacks,
crunch of cartilage against the pavement.

spring turns me into an evil man;
the girl walking beside me's name is reflection.
she has my same hands, ribcage, everything
that makes me cruel and vile --

it's as persistent as a hangnail
and as urgent as a broken nose.