Young Writers Society

i

my lungs were in a bonfire
a monumental sacrifice i was too young to make
but i grabbed them by the stems and yanked them out of my chest
and cast them into the blaze;
the sound of their feet dancing to a heavenly rhythm
were cracking thousands of tiny holes into my poor skull,
i couldn’t see past the light

They put my body up right in the centre of the church
and pinned badges to my dress
and pricked my skin with the pins
until my heart ricocheted up my throat and out my mouth.
the only thing they didn’t see
was what was happening to me.
they wanted suffocation; i wanted to be let free.

their hands were never off me
they choked my starving heart and crippled my dying body-
he came one night and cut my tongue out so i couldn’t scream
and spat that i was reckless.
he tied my wrists to pillars and put my heart in a jar
and fed my tongue to his dogs to vomit back up again:
so my scream got stuck in my head.

he whispered to me from up the stairwell these sweet little sounds-
he wanted my eyes to see
because i saw the visions
that he longed for, and he saw them when my pupils dilated.
I pulled and pulled and pulled at
my chains until the church walls
came tumbling over my head and the heads of his congregants;
those walls, they put the fire out.
i sliced my hair and tore off my dress
and i ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran

ii
i had no lungs, so i built some
out of old potato sacks i traded a farmer my teeth for.
everyone i met played tricks on me;
they told me to inhale stones down by the river
because i couldn’t eat; but those stones still crush me.

i beg the gods every day for some relief
some forgiveness and a little relief
because my chest is heavy now,
filled with stones that still make it hard to breathe.

My Father’s Bestiary

i used to play with my tail when my mother wasn’t looking
it was a secret i kept at the base of my spine
where i kept it so safe from prying eyes;
i took it out at night to play with it
questioning where it came from and what it could have been.
i’d never seen one before in all my life
didn’t know others kept them hidden in plain sight.

i grew my hair out long when the horns came in
and itched away at my burning skin
that fire travelled down to my ribs and burnt my heart,
so every time i spoke, a little smoke came out.
i did my best to keep my hands in front of my mouth
with my hair done up nice to keep the horns from poking out;
i started wearing dresses when the tail got too big
though i hated the way they clung to my breasts.

there was a book that sat on a shelf on the wall
for the longest time i didn’t care to reach it, didn’t notice at all
but i started having to file my horns and it hurt and it bled
and it got matted in my hair, and for some reason i remembered it.
i climbed on the sofa and all the chairs until i could grab it
figured it just wasn’t fair that i couldn’t see what my father did every night
but as i flipped through the pages i was horrified
by the monsters i saw, all so grim and grotesque,
until i found the page that caused my brief state of unrest.

i hurled it at the wall and scrambled to my feet
just as the chants rang through town- the mob was coming for me,
and at the front of it marched my mother while my father wept,
but the pitchfork in his hand never left his grip.
so i ran and i ran until their legs grew tired
and my lungs they burned, but i just couldn’t stop
i couldn’t stop running and i’ve only just slowed down
but my breath is lost- it’s nowhere to be found.
some days i think i’ve finally found it,
and then their voices wade in; i always mistake them for real
so i run and i run,
and if i keep going like this
panting and clawing
my way through
the dirt,
i’ll stop
and they’ll catch me
and add my face to my father’s bestiary.

I Have Nothing Left To Give You

Sweetheart, i’m a drunk without the bottle
But i slide across the counter and into his mouth every night,
and he swallows me up like i’m nothing- one gulp and i’m gone,
so the monster keeps roaming, roaming the alleys
behind your house and roaring for more,
threatening to choke you out with the whiskey on his breath
that wreaks of the alcohol he uses to cover up his grief.

I’m a wreck; i’m a landslide.
Why do you worship me?
I’m a wreck; i’m a landslide
Why do you insist on loving me?
I’m a wreck; i’m a landslide
and i’m scared of how much i love you.

darling I’m the bottom of the waterfall,
after the adrenaline of the fall-
i’m where you meet the stones and your skull cracks
before the water can even cool you down.
I’ll swallow up your screams like the drunk swallowed me,
Break your back on my ridges and drown you out.
and all the while i’ll be howling at myself to be gentler;
but i’ve been stuck below my own waves for so long now
maybe i just wanted the company.

i’m a mess; i’m a hurricane
but you tell me that you’re here
i’m a mess; i’m a hurricane
but you won’t let go
i’m a mess; i’m a hurricane;
your knuckles are bruised from how tight i’m holding on

The Feelings I Keep Locked Inside The Small of my Back

my cradle will be my tombstone
the place where i first laid my head will be the place under which
i’m sealed once i’ve yanked in that last exhausted breath
my age isn’t going to get me before my own hands do

Hands Over my Eyes

I don’t see supernovas in my own footsteps anymore-
I’ve lost the enchantment I had on myself when I was twelve and everything about me felt so profound because
I was just stepping over this precipice- the proverbial line drawn in the sand
That I didn’t pay any mind to, and I didn’t start when I realized that I’d have to come out someday,
And that I still try not to look back on.
Sometimes it felt like I’d left all of the supernovas behind that line.
(I don’t even know which direction I’m walking in anymore, but I have a feeling you’ll follow me wherever, so I’ll keep going. It’s not like I had any say in the matter anyway. Not any say in whether or not I walk, and definitely not any say in whether or not you follow).

A lot of the time, I feel like the splatters that get left over
after someone gets too drunk to hold onto their beer bottle:
free at last, but probably more stuck than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
I would have counted myself lucky to find someone who’d even sit with me in those moments,
so I’m sorry that it still catches me off guard when I realize that you stumbled across me and offered to cup me in the palm of your hand, safely away from the cracks of your fingers, and carry me to wherever it is that I think I need to go
(imagine my surprise when I’m stuck being disappointed again because that’s another phoney destination. At least now I’ll have you to laugh it off with, this time).

Sometimes when I’m trapped back in that church with my wrists chained and my tongue gone
all I want to do is rip us both apart because in the end, I’m probably more of a destroyer than a creator.
There’s always this quiet moment after, when I try to imagine rain hitting the backs of my eyelids instead of the goddamn tears that never fucking stop because I’m an insignificant pile of dog shit except the flies (which are plentiful) are my emotions and I draw them in, but I can’t control them after and they eat away at me so slowly that I want death instead of the agony of being their last supper-
this perfect, quiet moment, where you touch me and the gentleness brings me back and reminds me
that tears have never been evil and never will be, and that maybe I’m not shit, and even if I am,
shit has its place in this upside-down world with no actual directions- just the ones we gave it.

If I ever start seeing supernovas again, I know that they won’t be in the fake profoundness of my own footprints.
I’m not a child anymore (even though a lot of the time I feel like one, or less than), and i’ve given up on that kind of self-optimism.
I’ll find the ones I know you’re hiding underneath your own eyelids, because even if it scares me to admit it,
you’re not going anywhere. At least not yet. And I love you.
And it scares me to think that someone could be beautiful because he was the last time I ever wanted to let myself get enthralled by anyone ever again
and you know maybe better than anyone that he chewed me up and spat me out, and that some of me is still stuck in his teeth because monsters don’t floss- they like the aftertaste that their victims leave too much.
But you. You have supernovas. Maybe you’re right; maybe you’ll be the one who reminds me that I’ve still got some, too.

All My Stitches

healing begins with vulnerability; you need to start pulling the drop sheets off the furniture and sweep the dust off the windowsills. Pulling open those shutters every morning will be the most terrifying thing you’ll ever do, and you’ll do it every morning, but nothing is more important. Start with the shadows. The boxes come later.

My ears are a black hole and they’ve always been particularly good at sucking
The life out of myself because every
Little
Word
Gets trapped somewhere between my eardrum and my brain and i don’t know if it’s waxy build-up
Or my own unwillingness to let go of things,
But those words never go away. They’re trapped.
The least I could do for myself was turn them inwards, so I only heard myself.
But then the voices started coming from inside me instead,
So what was I left with to do but clog them up so I couldn’t hear anything at all?

”I tried vulnerability today. It didn’t go so well.”
“Oh? And why do you suppose that is?”
“I ripped open a box on the bottom and they all tumbled down, and the contents got spilled all over the shadows so now I’m- I’m a little lost, I suppose? A little overwhelmed. It’s everywhere, and I find myself tripping over things even in the light patches.”
“Darling boy, you start from the top! It’ll do it itself. You were never supposed to go for it all at once. And I warned you about opening boxes first. Go back to the shadows once the mess is cleaned up.

My belly is insatiable. It rumbles in time with the trembling of my hands, and all I can do is eat.
I eat everything now- his words when they tumble all over the dark spots,
And I bite off his head and chew on his fingers when the echo of his skull hitting the floor startles me.
I feel like I’m destroying him, if not by what I’m doing to him, then by what I’m doing to myself.
It’s not my fault- it’s not my fault if every time he tries to feed me
I scratch his hand because I expect a slap.

”I- I don’t think this is working.”
“Dear God! What happened to your skin?”
“See, that’s what I- that’s what I mean. I locked myself up in the attic by mistake and I couldn’t get out, and the longer I spent in the shadows the more I shook and the hungrier I got, so I started peeling off my own skin. See where I stitched it up? There’s a bald spot on the back of my head where I pulled out my hairs to make the thread.”
“And what happened to your finger?”
“I had to chew the bone out. It’s strange that there wasn’t a single needle in any of those boxes.”

My body is failing. My mind had betrayed it in the most grotesque of ways.
I don’t see things as they are anymore- just the shadows that are in my head,
And I hear the wind blowing through an attic window with the whispers from outside
And I feel like all of them are about me.
I don’t know why I’m still trying to save myself.

”He was a good boy. A grand one, and to many of those gathered here today, he was a source of light. Such a shame that all he was for himself was a black hole.”

Fast

It’s hard to watch yourself wade through a river while
The current swirls against your knees and the sludge on the rocks tries to
Make you slip and smash your face against the surface of the water.
And it’s harder still to watch yourself tugging a boat behind you-
An old canoe, too worn down for safe passage through rapids,
But it’ll make things easier when the water gets deeper.
Watching yourself keep pulling and pulling until the water
Is gripping your waist like an angry lover
Who slams himself against you with all his strength and all his might
And maybe you thought it was okay for a while but now you’re just waiting for it to be over
Even though you know he’d slow down if you asked him to.
You have the rope in your hands. You can see that. You know that.
But from the way you’re trudging, the next step
Always slower than
The one
Before it,
And the knowledge that you have not yet clambered to safety
Over the side of the canoe with your legs out of the water,
That maybe you don’t know as well as you thought you did.

Hidden

I remain a reflection that you catch sight of
On cloudy days in the window of your favourite store;
I’m a notion that you’re there, but when it comes down to it
There isn’t any confirmation that you exist at all.
I would like to think that if your eyes want to see you badly enough,
They could trick you into believing that you’re an entity at all.

Cloudy

Sometimes I want to believe that I am a mountain;
that I am strong and firm and unbreakable,
and that it would take a fuckton of TNT to blow me into little pieces.
The unfortunate truth of the matter, of course,
is that I am not a mountain,
but I'm more like a fuckton of TNT packed into a tight space
and I'm walking through streets filled with these god-damn fire dancers.

I've learned over the course of the past few months
that there are some things that TNT just can't be-
a mountain is definitely, definitely one of them and that sucks
but I think I'm slowly coming to terms with it.
I still pretend sometimes, because pretending is harmless
as long as pretend doesn't become reality
but right now I'm kind of scared that it is becoming reality
because what if I really am a mountain?

I am absolutely not a mountain
and I've cut all of my fuses so short in an effort to get rid of them
that pretty soon, I'm not going to be TNT either.
I am going to be nothing.
Literally nothing.
I already feel like I'm halfway there and so
I suppose that all of my half-assed attempts at self-preservation
(I always comforted myself with the fact that even if cutting fuses shorter
means that there's less space between a spark and myself,
the fuse is harder for the spark to get to in the first place)
were in vain anyway.
So stick me in a mountain
and watch me erupt like a volcano.

Ahem

Dear All of the People I can't fucking stand right now,
please get a real problem
because my digestive system and urine tract are none of your fucking business.
Sincerely,
My bladder and bowels

Watching

I can still feel it in me
creeping and more invasive than my tired lips care to admit.
fraudulence is its name, and i am one in every sense of the word,
down to my bones.
i feel like i could scream and scream and scream and scream
and someone would still be screaming louder
that i am not.
not a boy.
not a poet.
not a genius.
my father told me that i wasn't one of those things,
and my mother agreed with him.
the words you etch out so tenderly tell me that i am not the other two,
and sometimes, i feel like they tell me i'm not the first one either.

fraudulence.
it's the still, quiet voice that i can still hear above all of the natural disasters
and it's telling me the same thing over and over again
until my ears ring and long to shrink back into my skull:

how can you be
if you're not even real?