Young Writers Society

chai green tea at work and
maybe you can think straight again,
yesterday a reminder that nothing here
is promised, not one day, echoes of terror
(and resistance) caught in a mirrored chamber
amplifying and warping until there is only
the sickening green of new grass on earth
that is trying to forget the ravages of war, is
trying to forget that people would rather
paint artificial turf than let wounds be open
to air no matter how much you don't want them
to recover at all; at least then you can remember
what happened to maybe hope with wounds
on display they will not be forgotten
(you know this is a lie)

maybe you should've taken black tea, at least
then you could've tasted mourning
instead of growth

— April 11, 2017

(line in italics taken from Lin Manuel Miranda's sonnet dedicated to Pulse)

you watch the spiral spinning down down down
trying to tell yourself it's like the maple keys
you played with as a child, make them spin up
so they can spiral to the ground. you hear
they are seeds and want to plant them but
the suburbs are not the place to have roots
spread out and possibly crack foundations
and sewer lines, destroying the bedrock
of what was supposed to be a family

instead the keys lay on asphalt, cast aside
like children's toys left behind after they move out
(you hear the foundation is much better now
that the tree that was never supposed to be planted
has been uprooted)

— April 12, 2017

this is the first april in recent memory where
there isn't a concept of change in your own life, college
over and you have been at your job for two years
to the point there is a sense of drudgery lacking
when finals kept you up at night (instead of money)

you spend your days watching the world fall apart at the seams
(your brother in law wonders why you will never visit him; you
link an article saying the state he currently lives in
is trying to ban gay marriage) while halfheartedly putting new
stitches in place, trying to write love poems when all
you feel you can do is sit and hope
that maybe tomorrow will be better, maybe you will
be able to push through hardened leather and
tie a string that will not rip through; it is hard not
to treat this as the punishment for stagnation, for so long
as leather keeps moving it remains soft
but you have forgotten what movement is like
(and part of you is glad you can control your life instead
of waiting on the whims of others
for once)

— April 13, 2017

some days i wonder if people understand
the concept of a closet. how they never seem
to realize the air is harsher, here, every
breath a reminder the world will dislike you,
maybe not all of it, but enough that a bullseye
is still on your back. they think the rest
of the house is the same, but when you
suggest they go to the place you feel
comfortable they lash that nothing is for them
why should they bother to partake and

you wish there was enough room
for who they see you and who
you really are

— April 14, 2017

you do dishes on a sprained ankle because
they need to be done and your brother in law
cleaned the kitchen a month ago; part of you
doesn't want to let him down, part of you doesn't
know where this came from for how you never
used to be able to keep a clean kitchen; it
was always what your mother told you would
scare away anyone you could ever live with. roommate
horror stories just amplified the noise and every time
you looked at the stack by the sink (depression
prevented you from doing it so long it
never seems to slow down in growing) there
was so much guilt at proof she had been right and
you deserved the stress you brought upon yourself.

he loved you enough to show you it was alright
that sometimes you couldn't take care of yourself; that's
why he was there in the first place

— April 15, 2017

i didn't think you would become
a part of me so quickly. i learned over
years that obsession did not lead
to anything good. intensity was a heat
that i could not afford to have but you

you were the first person to tell me that
i was worth keeping even after i had turned
a tongue as good as a blade against everything
you held dear, a test of blood bonds that
demands knowing will you stay even
after you have seen my worst, not believing
this was the time somebody would say yes

it has been a month since our tattoos and i
cannot imagine my body looking any other way

— April 16, 2017

the past is a hand on your throat
you don't even realize is cutting off your circulation, nails
digging into your spine and you can't think anyway
why is this any different, your body
forgotten because
you can't feel it anyway, what is the point of
remembering how to breathe (all that was
important was your mind, anyway). it
squeezes when you least expect and

you dig your nails into its wrist and drop
to concrete, hoping you can learn to breathe
before it picks you up again

— April 17, 2017

there are days you want to rip your skin off
because it feels too small for the knives in your chest
and poison in your blood, lactic acid in muscles
telling you that this is not a body you were meant
to inhabit. you are a rubber band, collagen
making everything stretch tight over protruding bone
padded with more than you thought your frame
could hold, a reminder of shrinking and closing and
swallowing your tongue so flint could not strike iron
in your teeth and start an inferno of kerosene in
your breath, burning so hot you released
smoke into the air and letting everyone know
you were a mistake
(you were never meant to grow)

— April 18, 2017

you look at the future and see
your (new) family falling apart from
a piece of paper
saying
you are clinically different, enough that
we checked the boxes and now
you have a psychological record, words
turned sharp because this wasn't the life
i was promised and why are you
like this i kept hoping
you would change. you know
your brother in law would never and you
know what this means to your sister but the voices
won't stop until they drown out every other thought

you
tilt the glass and see your own past
reflected back at you, a lump in your throat
because you do not know what the future holds
(and you do not want the one you were promised;
it came with too many threats
to feel real)

you have a meeting with your boss
that turns into discussing tattoos and writing,
him saying he's looking forward to your book launch
and you struck by the fact he pays more attention
to your interests than your parents. he's a salesman,
you know how that works because you've put on
that same interested persona when there's
something to be received out of it but
this doesn't feel quite like that. his kids are
your age, you've met them and everyone
is always so kind you know it has to come
from somewhere (and you know it can
be from the cruelest of upbringings but)

your office is his living room and
there always seems to be space on the couch
when you need it (open, waiting, when
every time you visit your parents you
have to move their life out of what is
supposed to be your seat)

— April 20, 2017

I like how directly powerful your poetry is, Rosey. The theme glistens, not afraid to come out and announce its existence. It goes straight for the emotions, especially with the last two, and I really liked reading that. <3 Keep it up!

you wonder, sometimes, if
medication actually helps or simply
puts off the inevitable breakdown,
a permanent solution nonexistent
when all you can do is survive. a
morning cup of tea and a pill
before bed (you realize the irony
how you need both stimulant
and sedative) are the ways you reach
something that resembles equilibrium

(every day you cannot help but hear her voice
saying that it's all a money grab because
the more you take the more you need
for side effects. you do not know how to tell
her that you were worse before)

(she will not believe you)

— April 21, 2017

you spend a day out with your mom and
she thanks you for letting her buy you things
that you needed, admittedly, and you help her
with her groceries in return. this feels
like a family and you know
this is a momentary illusion
built by pulleys and weights
behind curtains where it takes a secret
to get what you need because they will
refuse your wants but insulting them
gets you their greatest treasure. it
takes a slytherin to survive and
ambition was never evil for you, even
though the way you create a
push and pull is unethical at best
(you know what you are supposed
to tell your parents and you would rather
they not hear any of it), built on
gambits upon gambits that
you hope, despite all odds,
will not come crashing down around you

(family is supposed to be the constant in life and
you haven't quite admitted this is not one)

— April 22, 2017

praising intelligence is a funny thing. it
reduces you to a trophy, almost, words
off your mother's lips saying how you
can defy all the odds if only
you would apply yourself, diagnoses
missed because you're so brilliant
why can't you focus; your
accomplishments lined a trophy case and
your own timeline didn't seem to matter
because it only counted if you were
a protege. you were supposed to
be, you know, but that does not
remove the fact talent is nothing
unless you have the skill. it takes time
to build and if you want her praise
that is time you do not have

— April 23, 2017

you keep trying to find the right combination
of medication, structure
and anxiety
meant to unlock who you were supposed
to be (who you have to be), seeking
magic bullets (everything works
at first), until your system adjusts
then it's a monotonous lull
of wondering if this really works
(until you go off it for a day then
you realize just how bad your worst
was). each step gets you a little closer
to functional but each step makes
every lie you have ever been told
about health
come to the surface

(you were never told life
would still be hard, even if
you were perfect)

— April 24, 2017