Young Writers Society

Twelve

I could describe my life so many ways
a merry go round.
an endless maze.
a deep hole i just keep digging deeper.
a sentence that never ends.

The only light I have is Eleanor
and one day she'll grow up and ask questions
daddy.
Where is he?
daddy.
Why isn't he here?
daddy.
Why doesn't he love me?

And I'm not sure I'm strong enough to say that I've asked myself that same question
for a year
and a day.

Thirteen

When I was little, I used to stop at every wishing well.
And throw the money in my pockets into the clear streams.
I believed in pixie dust enchantments, I had life on a string.

Once I threw a dollar into a wishing well
and watched it sink to the bottom.
Drowned in a pool meant to sink even the most precious things
soggy with the weight of my mother's words
as she told me how stupid I was to throw away money like that
and dragged me away.

I'm going to teach my daughter to throw things in the well.
Not money though.
No, whenever her bad memories plight her,
or whenever the tears flow too long.
I'll take her to one.
And I'll have her watch the water, and wish with all her might.
star light, star bright, first star I see tonight...
And maybe her pixie dreams will evolve into fairies
that dance around her head, making a real life angel halo.
I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight...

Fourteen

Christmas Break.
The words I dreaded with everything in me
from the bottom of my toes to the tips of my ears.
I wanted it to be perfect, to hold my beautiful daughter by the tree
and forget who would be home
drinking hot coco.
But I knew he would come and find me
I dreaded it with my soul
and prayed every night to a God I didn't believe in
that my Christmas could be card like perfect
and absolutely not a nightmare.

But the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future haunt me
follow me through the halls of my house,
whispering "He's coming back, he's coming back"
and even my daughter notices the chill of memories.

Fifteen


Lights sparkled and shone in Eleanor's eyes.
(i wanted to break every last one with my bare fingers)
Her giggle rang through the house, absolutely perfect.
(i wanted to cover my ears and scream, drown out the laugh that haunts me)
I went shopping for every toy and outfit imaginable, wonderful things for a perfect daughter.
(i wanted to pour gasoline over myself and douse myself in flames.)
I held onto the hope that he wouldn't come home, that Christmas would be wonderful.
(i traced my fingers over scars and thought about rape in it's entirety.)
I had Christmas pictures done with me and Eleanor, and our dog Toto.
(i hated the clicking noise of the camera, it sounded like a beetle's wings.)
I prayed every night for an angel.
(instead i got a devil with wings.)

Eleanor is too young for crayons and coloring books
but I bought them for her anyway, because
every good little kid needs to learn how
to draw within the lines of society.
She wouldn't use them for a
very long time, I know.
But they're there.
Waiting.

Sixteen

When I was younger I used to enjoy the big Christmas parties my parents hosted.
I'd wear my pretty new Christmas dress, (mother bought one for every party)
and I'd prance around and toss my curls.
I survived on chocolate and sips of champagne,
stolen kisses under the mistletoe and the belief I'd won again
the skinniest
the prettiest.

I guess that won't happen this year, but I wish it could.

Seventeen

No curls this time, Eleanor likes to grab hair.
No pretty jewelry, plump little fingers like to grab at necklaces and earrings.
Dresses are a bad idea when you're lugging around a baby, so pants and a sweater instead.
Can't be low cut, because Eleanor sticks her hands down shirts and pulls on necklines.
My mirror on the wall isn't cracked, but it might be in a minute.
I think I might throw my shoe at it (sensible ballet flats, no heels this time)
because I look like a mother.
I want to scream.
My father stops in my doorway, looks me up and down. "You look nice"
paper smiles.

The smell of chocolate makes me sick and I want to puke
all over my mom's new rug.
I stare down and the pattern and try not to breathe
or to breathe.
I don't even know anymore, all I know is that chest is tight
and my heart tighter.
Ow.

Eighteen
I hold onto stars because I don't want morning to come
I have to be a person when morning comes, cardboard with a blue smile painted on
flapping in the wind.
The moon slips from my fingers
and I'm stuck with the sun
daylight burning the dreams away.

Penny's story is over for now- I'm bored.
-
dedicated to @Piper

Nineteen

there's a hole in the middle of my map
and every time i'm sad i look at it
that hole caused by a red tack that i stuck there
in the hope that i'd go there one day.

the dust has gathered on the map lately
but i blow it away sometimes and stare at the hole
and pick at it when i feel the sleep creeping into my heart
because i don't want to forget her, even if she's just a spot
not a person.

she bought me my map, and showed me a world
that i couldn't see through my binoculars
and told me to look at the big picture
or i'd lose my mind in my books.

i said okay, and then watched her lose hers.

Twenty

vodka is gasoline and whiskey is the match
it lights my heart on fire and hides the burnt parts
from all the times I didn't stop the fire in its tracks
but let it burn me to death (or near it)
because I felt it

Twenty One

Dedicated to @Isha, @Iggy and @Rosey%20Unicorn
-

When you fall out of life and into a sea of maps,
armed with red tacks and hoped for ever afters
don't worry, I'll be there.
I'll hold your finger tips and you can say anything
and even if it makes no sense I'll know exactly what you're saying.

I know they clipped your wings and still expected you to fly;
and I know you think that's unfair, but I promise, I'll be good to you.
I take your porcelain pieces and glue you back together,
and even if your painted blue smile is a little crooked, you'll still look
perfect to me.

Lover dearest, you've stood in the storm and let me watch as you were
pelted
with so many pieces of words that you didn't deserve to hear.
And you let me watched as your glass tears fell onto my eyelashes.
You don't understand that you have the power to fix me,
you're too busy thinking I'm the one who's going to fix you.

I'll take you far from here and hold you at arm's length till your breath
fills your lungs again, and watch you feel alive again.
By now they think they've reduced you to the very lowest of low.
so it goes that you should leave me for the stars.
But thankfully, you're still here. 'Cause you decided to break it and I'm so glad
you did.

i just can't even <3333

Twenty Two

she watches the screen
tapping her foot, waiting
for words that are said by
typing on a blood stained keyboard
words that never come when she wants them too.
and she watches the messages she'll never send
pile up in that word document,
waiting for her twenty seconds of courage
when she can say everything she's imagined in her head.

he always told her, tracing her body's outline with a red pen
that she thought too much, that just doing it would be much easier
than hesitating and biting her lip to keep herself from opening up her soul
too much.
he always said he'd sew her heart back onto her sleeve if it fell off
but she doesn't believe that's possible, i mean, when one's heart falls
doesn't that mean it'll shatter when it hits the floor?

she never says the things she has in her head, so they bunch up
and create huge piles of words that spill out when she's not thinking
and she throws paragraphs of admittance that she is less perfect than she intends
and he pets her hair and colors in her outline so she can see that she does have a heart.

even if tomorrow he opened up his chest to carve her name on his chest,
she wouldn't believe it for a second--just check to make sure her heart was still there
beating, the cardboard wet and soggy from all the nights she cried, because
she thinks she's not brave enough for him.

she handed him books and poetry she wrote in still aired rooms
and he read them with absurd ease, and she was a little disappointed that he
didn't see the meaning in them, didn't see what she was trying to say without words.
so she took them back and put them on her sleeve, right beside her heart
too protect anyone who tried to come near from knowing what she thought of them.

he left her with a silver slip of a promise, that he'd come back
and for a long time she sat staring at the screen and wondered
if she was right not to let her heart fall, if she was right to catch it and safety pin it back.
she decided she'd spill all her words if he came back
let the heart bleed out onto the covers of the bed,
but she never had too, because he never came back.

she grabbed the nearest exit, flew off into the sun and let it burn her
let herself wither into a pile of words, tied tightly together with heartstrings
she wouldn't cut.

she looks at the brown paper, stares at the outline he drew
red ball point pen making wide lines where there used to be skin.
and she sees he colored in her eyes and hair, but nothing else,
just a cut out of what he wanted her to be, and what she never was.
she wonders now if he liked her, or if he liked the idea of her
and that hurts more than any letters he will never send.

Twenty Three

You got her drunk on holy water,
grabbed her halo and yanked her back, said
don't go upstairs, the attic is full of skeletons.
But she went up there anyway, and her jaw dropped in astonishment
at all the bones that hung from the ceiling.
As a punishment your fingernails made crescent shapes on her face
and she bit your lip and tasted blood, which surprised her because
I didn't think you were human.
And you threw back your head and laughed, grabbed her hair and yanked it
hard and sharp so that her face was level with yours.
And you didn't say anything, just breathed into her mouth as your bodies danced across each other's finger tips
and you showed her what human things you could do.
She took off her wings an hung them off the side of a bridge
and when the wind knocked them off, she jumped with them.

Twenty Four

i know that there are infinite numbers between 1 and 0
and i know that there are even more infinite stars in the sky
i know so many things
and you taught me so many more

but i still don't understand how i am supposed to open my mouth
and spill words without abandon
and let my heart glow red on my sleeve
warmed from your voice and convincing lies

i still don't understand how i am supposed to let you write on my skin
with crescent shaped finger prints and heart shaped bruises
when it feels so wrong to lay there and let you take me and use me
when i get nothing out of it at all

i still don't understand how vodka is supposed to fuel everything in me
and that food is the enemy, not you
how i'm supposed to hold onto every piece of a word you ever said
and pretend that there shouldn't be a thousand more flowers in my empty vase of a heart

i still don't understand why the stars are always moving and why i don't move with them
because you telling me i'm stuck in a nothing town with a nobody name
doesn't seem fair
because i feel like i'm destined for bright lights that flash brighter than any infinite amount of stars
and glow with the warmth your eyes never gave me