Young Writers Society

psychosomatic, (noun): something all
in your head made up because you
do not know how else to react, a
fear turned physical and
the only thing you can do is let it come

somatic, (noun): the body remembers even
what your mind forgets, fears buried
to the point they leap at your throat;
a type of therapy meant
to find the fear coiling your muscles
like elastics about to snap before launching
a projectile deep into the ground, your life
on pause with baited breath
before the trebuchet releases

(you have gone through this four times
in your life, twice in five years and
you don't know if you will ever get
the dirt out from your skin)

— April 25, 2017

your survival instincts are kicking in, saying never
give them a reason to abandon you, always
have just enough weakness they feel compelled
to help you and hate it (but at least then you know
they exist). you know it is maladaptive but
every study they have ever done about attachment
says a child will do whatever it takes to get love
(no matter how conditional), and

you sit at night and realize your mother has never
been your friend, the metrics different for you, something
you believed was unreasonable because if the person
whose life is supposed to focus on you can't do this
who can. you know, logically, it must be
a lie but you have spent so long treating it as truth
you know the problem has to be yours

(she has told you in no uncertain terms
this is the case)

— April 26, 2017

you can't tell if you are too good
or not good enough at making habits,
crafting systems that distract
more efficiently than systems meant
to build up from a basement
never supposed to be dug. you grew up
in a technical three story home, the
underground a well-established storage space
(you had apocalypse plans from
when you were four; not from any wild
imagination, just because it was important
to be prepared) that turned to skeletons
as you grew older. the dead resided in
holes six feet deep and the windows
always peeked out form the earth
shining light where none was ever
meant to reach. you could never
be proactive with laundry because
that meant going down there and
you didn't want to turn on the light
and see the future that was prepared
for in high relief

you did not know a basement wasn't
universal. you thought the past
greeted everyone like an old friend

— April 27, 2017

you have a dream about returning to ballet
and in the morning your instagram
is full of ballet exam pictures (maybe
your body remembers what your mind
does not; it's good at that); you
ache at the memories of old injuries
pushed through because you can rest
after you've been pretty long enough and

you miss it more than words can describe, your
makeup a graveyard of bright red lipstick
meant to be seen from a minimum of
twenty feet away (washed out by stage lights
that made it you never understood fright;
you couldn't see those watching anyway)
a smokey eye learned before simply
applying colour because if you didn't have
a full face of makeup then you looked
blank, the last thing you wanted to be

you are too old to take ballet exams
in your 20s

— April 28, 2017

obsessions circle and circle and circle
like vultures over blood (did you know
vultures are communal species
undeserving of their reputation);
a dead horse you cannot stop beating
because its life and death should've
been in your control (it wasn't, you try
to tell yourself, but any responsibility
given to you falls squarely on your shoulders
there are no outside factors allowed). there is
no room for anything else but reaching
the objective and you do not have alternatives
because you were only given so much

(you would rather be the next meal, because
at least then you would be vindicated for trying
instead of tossed out for failure)

— April 29, 2017

you did not want to expose yourself this month.
normally your poetry is a shrine to
openness, the vulnerability of love mixed with
too many metaphors (none of them are enough; i
am never enough) but you made a mistake on day four
realizing on day six that no, you were wrong, you
feel more than that poem implies and you
couldn't take the thought of recanting so soon
(her voice was louder this month, you know
but you had not realized how heavy it was
to hear saying the wrong thing at the wrong
time deserved a lecture to make sure
your nose was rubbed in your mistake).
you did not want to expose certain
nerves from their rawness but you know
secrets hurt more than truth

(i know everything i want is wrong, please
do not remind me that my goals mean
nothing in the ocean of life. i know it is
too cruel to grant things that are mere wishes)

(i know you aren't supposed to wish for anything)

— April 30, 2017

i have to write you one more poem
in the margins of my notebook. you deserve
dozens of pages (the bets were half
my poetry would be about you; life
had other plans. that seems to be
the pattern with us, of late) but
the margins feel like what you have become
always there and necessary for any
piece of writing (we met over that, i tell
everyone i know, because how else
could we have built what we have) but
so seamlessly integrated because you are
a part of my skin and without you
i could not breathe. sometimes they shrink
when life is so full there needs to be more
room but other times they widen because
i do not know how i will make it to the end
without help. our lives are made
of ink and pixels and touch and
plane rides where oxygen is added
to make it we can survive when we
should not have (you are my life support)
and a year ago i stood by your side
in a real life disney movie holding the pen
you had offered to start a new chapter
of your life (and you drove me
to the airport afterwards
where i could return to pick up
more pieces of text now on the page
you are the margins of)

happy anniversary

the definition of true love is it is ubiquitous

These are all really good, so I'm just commenting (again) to say congrats on finishing NaPo!