i'm almost done reading this book chapters after chapters documenting the story of a girl from a little town that no one ever knows the name of.
the pages are worn with age and care i dog-eared some, too, even though they always said not to. no one likes the musty smell that drifts throughout the room when i open the book yet again. feeling the old leather under careful fingers.
i've walked around book store after book store, staring at the books on the neat wooden shelves and reading blurbs of stories. i tried to find the right one for me, but i'm scared of the endings i can't possibly predict.
one of the books will someday be mine, but i don't know which. i'm not sure i want to know. it's fun imagining reading on white sands and in swaying hammocks, but it's never as nice as reading my book snuggled underneath warm covers on a cold winter's day.
i can stop reading now. or maybe i can just reread again and again and again, watching a familiar tale play out in front of eyes glittering with childlike joy.
but eventually i'll grow tired of the same old story. i already am. even if it's frightening, i have to go up to the shelf and pick a book. i won't be able to return it. but if i realize i really don't like this new story, i can always go back to that little bookstore and pick a new one.
i can’t remember the first day you and i met. maybe it was under the trees at recess, foreheads glistening with sweat and toothy grins on our faces. maybe it was in a class— if i try hard enough, i think i can remember your fingers coated with paint or a song on your lips.
what i remember are saturdays at the local library cementing a friendship i thought was meant to be. we talked about dinosaurs and sciences and all the things i had ever loved. and when i found out you liked anime, too, i thought i had found my platonic soulmate.
you teased me for liking that one book character as we sat in the school store every single morning and as we stuffed our faces at lunch. i denied the connection, but i’ve never been good at hiding my feelings for others.
i called you my best friend. forever, i said. i wanted a cute little friendship necklace, just like i had always read about. you would have one half of my heart— something to symbolize what i knew to be the truth. but we never got that necklace, and i don’t think you would have worn it even if i did.
it’s been years since we last met. years since we were best friends. our old friends sometimes mention you in the middle of unrelated conversations. and i pause and pretend that you haven’t left me scrambling after the missing piece of my heart. they talk about how you’re going by a new name, and how you’ve gotten back into anime. how they see you doing mundane things. and even though you left me alone and broken, i can’t help but feel happy to know that you’re finally finding yourself.
wherever you are now, i hope you remember, too, all of the little jokes and childhood games that we played together. remember how i wanted to include you in the book i wrote in seventh grade, how we conquered countless competitions at each other’s side, and all of the late nights we spent watching anime together at one of our houses. i hope you remember when we were best friends— never forever, but always occasionally.
"i don't like superheroes," i keep telling the world. i'm trying to prove a point, but i don't know to who. they say it's bad to like what everyone else likes. that i should be ashamed if i like the hot new superhero movie and that i shouldn't get excited about a studio making a new one- especially when their track record is far from superb.
but the child in me still loves looking up to the web slinger that flew across my childhood tv. when i saw the first trailer of a world featuring characters i had always secretly cared about, i knew that i was flying over the streets of new york city on a thread made of the finest silk, my heart clad in red and blue.
i never told anyone how i counted down the days. how i screamed out the lyrics to sunflower when they played it at my winter dance. to how i thought it was as important to me as the play that my brother had wanted to see for years and years and years.
i was ashamed for thinking that anyone could wear the mask, and for foolishly believing that i was included, too. we say that we don't like the heroes of our childhood because it's wrong to believe that there are good people out there who help others just because they know that great power comes with great responsibility.
but it's not wrong to think that even a single person can make a difference that changes a world falling apart at its seams. in a world that always seems to fail me, i want to believe that i can be a superhero just like you.
i never understood the appeal of a small green space enclosed by four towering brick walls some fifty years old. it was nice looking through the windows on the second floor and watching the upperclassmen run and joke and eat their lunch surrounded by flowering trees in the middle of spring. but the courtyard would be a gathering of people who were my peers in name alone, and i had never liked sitting alone at lunch.
then i was granted my imaginary keys to an imaginary utopia. i discovered that the place i had been so quick to dismiss as a freshman was the secret paradise all long for. i could sit alone at old metal tables, watching the clouds roll across a pristine blue sky. there was a hidden beauty in those solitary moments, and a freedom that had never been fully addressed. i never had to tell a teacher when i wanted to run to my locker or swing by the bathroom. no one could tell me not to eat my lunch ten minutes before the lunch bell rang.
i learned to value the individual choices and to crave the freedom that my adult years will soon bring. each moment was carefully spent as i sat in the courtyard. knowing that my time was finite, and that my paradise would soon be out of reach, i braved the cold and sought out the warm patches created by the sun’s gentle rays on days i could have stayed inside. and when the weather was too extreme— the wind too strong, the air too cold, or the sky too dark— i returned to the warmth of the crowded cafeteria study.
as spring once again returns i sit out in the courtyard. alone. i should be miserable by myself like the younger me predicted, but i’m reveling in the cool spring air, listening to the birds chirping cheerful little melodies as my fingers dance across a keyboard.
a story begins with a single white post among a sea of blue. an idea, a character, the beginning of a thought— all run through my head as i sit at my keyboard. i know i have an addiction for spontaneously creating stories, but i thrive in the possibilities at my fingertips.
the writing process can stretch for an eternity, just word after word on a blank document as i try to decide if i'm doing things right. everything needs to be meticulously plotted, even though the only thing i can plan for is how a story begins and ends.
some may say that roleplays aren't truly satisfying. that a hodgepodge of characters in a setting chosen at random can never be as enjoyable as writing an entire novel. but they have never had, friendship blossom on the screen between two characters who should have never met— they make promises to each other that they never can make in their actual stories. there's love, too. romances carved out in an intricate array of confessions and denials. it's beautiful to watch that dance. and the anger is just as incredible. they're not even from the same story, but they still manage to hate each other with a burning passion. i love kindling that fire.
i know it's ultimately an escape, and a form of instant gratification for character development that i can never truly get when writing a novel. but a warm feeling nestles in my chest whenever i figure out an idea for the perfect new roleplay, and i will never stop making them— even when they someday number in the thousands.
maybe i like you because you remind me that there's no such thing as a predetermined fate. your life hasn't been dictated by a single mistake you made as a child. you might suffer through a monotonous stream of activities, and through a loneliness that you can't always bear, but it won't be for an eternity. we're simply watching the grains of sand slip through the hourglass, running our hands through the broken shards of glass as we bide my time.
maybe i like you because you're a beacon of hope when everything around me goes dark— an overdone cliché at best. but there's nothing wrong with repeating the same speeches on good and bad, and believing that people can change for the better. we're the twinkling stars in the impossibly large sea of black, and the vibrant sunrise bursting through the horizon.
maybe i like you because your heart is too big for a world that wants to tear you apart piece by every little piece. you care so much that it hurts when you see others being brushed aside, but hide the good in the very depths of your soul because it's a sin in this world to care for someone else. yet you've never been just yourself. you're always someone's friend, or someone's family. you're a brother. a mentor. a guide. people trust you, and you do your very best to show them they haven't made a mistake in believing in your. we hold the world up as pillars of kindness. even when we think we're failures, we're still strong and sturdy, and they still choose to lean on us instead of others.
or maybe i like you because you've always been the reflection i see when i look in my mirror, with all the little imperfections i try to ignore. we must be copies of each other, similar in every way. every line can be traced back to the original story— one of change, of hope and of finding the inner strength we never realized we had.
Hey! Wanted to stop by and say this is a neat writing style, to go more so on longer, more narrative poems. You've got some nice, winding stanzas and neat figurative language. Excited to see what comes next !
my body is a time capsule. scars and cuts litter my bare skin, and i can trace every one of them back to a stumble or fall.
i’ve never been good at taking things slow. in the past week alone, i’ve hit my head three times on the roof of the chicken coop. each time hurts just as much as the first accident did, but i’ve learned to ignore the pain that blossoms at the top of my skull.
i have a little knick on my finger from where i cut myself while cleaning up the shards of glass that spilled across the school hallway when my friend’s penny jar broke. the bell was about to ring, but i didn’t want him to be late to class so i tried cleaning up all the little bronze discs at our feet.
in the summer of ‘09, i broke my toe running over a root in a nearby state park. i hobbled around on crutches and read many books during the rest of those long two months. i can’t see where bones snapped from the outside, but i know the inside of my body holds many secrets.
my legs are a mosaic of old cuts and scabs from many summers. my blood must be quite tasty to the mosquitoes that cover my legs in bug bites every year. i itch and scratch at them no matter how old i’ve become. and when the wounds finally begin to heal, i reopen them— never intentionally, but i just can’t let them go.
i’ve always been told that i need to start taking things slow if i want to stop getting hurt. but the world is moving too fast around me to pause and mind my step. i can deal with a little pain if it means getting to truly live.
i think there’s a monster inside of me— a powerful, angry beast. i’m good at quieting his roars, but sometimes the noise overwhelms me. i can feel him prowling around in the center of my chest, causing a painful, irritating knot. the monster is a brilliant shade of red as he utters a low growl.
i’ve seen the power of other monsters, and how they destroy those that have them. they disguise themselves and blend in with the throbbing of gentle hearts. they’re just as colorful as my own, but are never seen by the ones they control. some are sorrowful blues and quivering purples. others are envious greens. and some are the same bright scarlet as my monster.
they infect the rest of the heart, and the heart is never the wiser. i’ve tried to keep my monster trapped in a cage where no one can ever find him. but sometimes he finds a way to escape. i always catch him before the world can figure out that he exists, but i still tremble and turn pale when i realize i can never truly stop him.
i've grown up a magician, letting spells dance on my fingertips— strong, beautiful arrays of a rainbow of colors that shimmer in the light. i know just the right words to mend an open wounds, and find the hidden, broken bones underneath the surface. and when i say the right spell and run my fingers across tender skin, i can heal those internal scars.
but i want to be like the knights i've read stories since i was just a little girl. i want to be the peak of chivalry and bravery, defending my own princesses and vanquishing dragons that try to steal them away. i want to grasp the hilt of a blade that has won countless battles, and lost some, too. and when someone needs my help, i don't want to offer a spell as consolation. i want to fight the monsters lurking in the dark, and defeat all that try to hurt them.
i have a pit growing in my stomach, twisting this way and that.
i feel queasy— it's taking all of my concentration to avoid making the downstairs bathroom my new home.
i could feel the beginnings of the ache last night. i was sitting in my bed like i am now, trying to figure out what i had done to upset the fragile balance of my body.
today is supposed to be an important day. i've spent a year building up to this final presentation— if i make too many mistakes, i'll fail and won't be able to graduate.
but the pit in my stomach isn't butterflies. i know what that feels like. i know how hard it is to sit still in the final hours before failure or success, and how i pace and pace as the butterflies about.
all i want to do is burrow underneath my covers, clenching my tablet and watching Sanders Sides in the comfort or darkness, or curl into a ball into my nest of pillows with a good book in my hands.
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