Young Writers Society

the secrets have come out to play

she's crying out for help and i don't know what to say.

it's been an endless cycle of
i just want to sleep
but i'm fine
i don't need help
should i go to the ER?
i can't go
i'm not that bad i swear
just a bad mother, a bad person
i look fine so this is just for attention
i want to fall into old habits
i'm fine
i'm scared to take a shower
i'm okay now
but if i start i won't stop

she started on her arms,
just as short-sleeve weather started.
one turned into two turned into too many
and all she does is cut boxes by herself.

help moves too slowly for those who need it most.
the first doctor didn't believe in depression.
the second doctor believed her
but zoloft only made her dream of knives
and lexapro made them come true.

i gave her every number i could find
but she only called one
assessment, referral, yet another assessment.
all the things you can't say out loud
circled on a questionnaire.

i am a thousand miles away.
i can't drag her to doctors
or take away box cutters
or watch that she swallows her pills.
i thought i was god once,
but i'm just another kind of crazy
and I have nothing left to say besides

Just try to sleep
i know you're not fine
yes you need help and that's okay
you can go or you can keep sinking
you're not bad, you're sick,
no matter what your family says.
i'm sorry,
i'm sorry
i'm sorry

So this is about a friend of mine. She's been going through a really rough situation, most recently culminating in starting self-harm again for the first time in years. Oh, and she has to carry around box cutters for her job, so that's not helping. She finally saw someone today, but anyone who's experienced mental health issues knows it's kind of

a long and agonizing process.

So yeah, the above is garbage. But there's some good stuff, so I may rework it.

Okay, so this is where I ramble about my poems instead of just letting them lie like the good YWS poets. This is my first actual attempt to write about my Yia-Yia (Greek for Grandma), who passed away in January after being diagnosed with leukemia in September. I've had ideas floating around but it's hard to actually write. It's not the poem she deserves but I'll keep trying. Spanakopita is the Greek spinach pie with cheese and phyllo dough. It is amazing and delicious but none will ever be like Yia-Yia's.

Yep, this is that profound poem about socks. I hang on to them for so long, even though I'm sure most of them are destined to be forever alone.

i died on the ides of march.
the ambulance dragged me
i protested, screaming
no drugs i swear, don't tell mama...

thoughts flood, body shakes.
anchor cries apocalypse.
mind branches into past,
i remember

Tom b. 1952.

A phantom, he lives, I believe.
I know he memorized the dictionary
and crazy took him to we-don't-talk-about-it
This is what happened, mama

the sparrow told me i am specter now.
my sister will live, her children will know
Nicole b. 1990
who fell to we-don't-talk-about-it,
a tree broken.

the sparrow sent my body to the oak guards.
i solve puzzles, they command sleep.

i wake up suffocating
in orchid capsules, marigold tablets.
words fly onto paper, pencil breaks

i dream the walls are fields painted with lavender,
roots twist into my body,
trees unlock the doors,
dirt permeates the tile.

The window shows bulldozers and cranes.
morning brings tablets,
rebuilding my body
wing by wing.

On the beach of memory,
I seek the steps, the steps of the past.

I want to swim in the sea of my mind,
for those happy fish I long to find.
There's no longer smiles, I do not know peace,
Because the shark loves sadness the most.

He devours the fish, brings bitterness,
and dominates the sea so that I do not remember
A past of sun, of light in the sky;
Under the gray it seems so far.

Because I never learned the names of blue

It is sunlight scattered, seeking oxygen, electric sparks.
It is periwinkle invading gardens and a baby boy’s booties.
At X11, it is primary, the cornerstone of colors,
But the printer’s pigment is richer, not glaring like its cousin.
Powder blue triggers memories of eyes you wish you could forget.
In the North they call it azure, evoking turquoise dreams.
Pantone evokes royalty, Crayola the summer sky in wax.
Spanish blue is more Atlantic than Mediterranean, more north than south.
Liberty is tinged by indigo, a plant of slaves,
Not as bright as the Egyptians who guarded their graves.
Ultramarine, a holy blue from the sea, the Virgin clothed in lapis lazuli.
Resolution is quiet, sturdy, standing with navy’s conformity.
Catalina recalls the Spanish tides, darker than midnight.
Independence blends into gray, like liberty dulled.
The space cadet tries to recall the night sky, the ocean.
True blue belongs to UCLA, Honululu to the Lions.
Silver lake blue wraps you in melancholy.
While Majorelle in Morocco dominates intensity.
Lapis lazuli, born from the earth, a gift from radical sulfides.
Short wavelengths bring us sky, bring us night, bring us sadness, bring us life.

I couldn't sleep last night until around 3 am, when I heard bird calls. Birds sing in the middle of the night? Curious, I went outside and realized the sky was already pinkish, so I guess they were waking up as I was going to bed. Go figure.