Young Writers Society

I.



there's something to be said for the bravery that exists in my shadows.
every night, the wolves come and the overgrown vines reach their fingers into my dreams, wrapping their way around my thoughts until the nightmares scream from my chest with a howl of fury. in the morning, i wake up and i see my bloody foot prints making circles around my heart, stalking the prey my mind seeks when it's too quiet and i can't keep my thoughts from wandering anymore.

///

these are the things i know to be true.

nobody will love you until you chase your demons out of your mouth before you speak. that wail is only a lullaby to the broken and nobody can open the door if you've locked it from the inside. throw open the shutters and let the light in.

everyone will speak until there's something to say. your mouth is full of red-ringed hate and i think it might be too late to get that part of yourself you so desperately need back. move on and forget the puzzle pieces of your soul you left behind.

///

i give names to the voices inside my head so i don't feel so alone. morning comes and its no different than the day before, i'm swimming in a fog in my head looking for my lighthouse, looking for my way out. there's no way out. this room is cage of four walls and black out curtains and i dropped the keys when i started running. i don't think i've ever stopped running. or maybe, it's more that i never began. maybe i need to start running.

///

II.



i wrote poems about the way you feel when you move beneath my skin.
your name, over and over again, until there's no reasoning with myself anymore.

...

you are the space between my thoughts.
the end of a sentence hanging onto the smallest fragment of things better left unsaid.

...

i watch you cover everything i love with your body,
watch you bury every bit of me until i am your body.
we are a body and when you're gone, it's like i'm missing myself.

...


i let you haunt my dreams so i don't have to be alone anymore.
let's be honest.
self care is so mundane.
everything bloody just turns out to be red.

...

///
in progress

These past two poems are the first bit of new writing, rather than editing, that I've done since 2018. My goal for NaPo this year is to focus on creating new, rather than perfecting and rewriting old. It's time for new imagery, new ideas, a fresh voice.

I want to be raw and real. I'm not going to polish, I'm just going to write. It feels good to stretch these muscles again and see what has been waiting in the shadows of my mind, just waiting to be put on the page.

III.

IV.



and if i should go quickly,
do not worry.
i slipped away on feet cushioned by beds of moss,
with eyes focused on my horizon.
slowly would be much worse, i fear.
to know what it is to fade away into pages long past written.
to see a sun fade in the reflection of your eyes.
that is something that cannot be endured.

///
in progress

V.



i wrote 100 pages of the same name before i finally gave it up as a bad job and moved on.

…

you haven't been back in so long that my waiting cobwebs have moved from shadows to cover my eyes, even in the daylight.

...

a cowboy, a lonely wolf, a solitary statue guarding against a night that always comes.
there is no end to your vigil in sight

…

i count the breaths between sentences as if it could somehow measure how long it will take for you to come back to me.
neither of us sleeps without the other, my skin is your skin and your heart sits in my open palm— a nervous flutter in my hand that only burns when we are close.

///
in progress

I’m not saying any of this is good, or even close to good— but I love seeing these new themes pop up and seeing how they’re fitting into making my new voice. There’s definitely some superfulousness going on— my speciality— but that’s okay. Right now it’s all about digging into the dirt to plant some seeds for the later poems that ARE good. It takes time, just like all good things.

I also need to read some poetry again. It’s been awhile. About to drop into some threads and take a peek at what y’all are doing and pull out my old loved books. That will feel good too.

VI.



my cowboy doesn't know i watch him.
when i watch him the cobwebs draw by from my eyelashes,
and i can suddenly see the rocky heart beneath—
all night bent over to protect itself.
i wrote one hundred pages of the same name trying to find some way
to elaborate on the poetry strung out between his stars.
i finally gave it up as a bad job and went back to watching
watching the way his hair moves beneath moonbeams,
seeing how the longer it touches, his skin seems to become my skin.
i think i am meant to be his observer,
watcher,
a dreamscape turned to sunlight.
i think he is meant to be my seer,
my single twinkling north star,
my heart upturned over mountain ranges.

VII.



the way your feet move when you're trying to go nowhere is a very telling thing.

...

a cowboy standing on the edge of an ellipses

...

you are my dreamscape turned to sunbeams,
a picture i made up in my mind came to life


///
in progress

VIII.



sometimes you wish you could wake up dead.
a taped-up heart discarded like a missing shoe,
broken pieces on the floor scattered and left there for the dog to eat.
too many miles left to go, too many shots fired before take-off.

you are not everyone's cup of tea.
you burn those who try to hold you,
crescent shaped rings left around cherry picked mouths—
every fiery kiss seared into the inside of palms.

there's a solace in your never-ending loneliness.
at least that way you can move forward without your life dragging behind you.
your broken pieces discarded for a dog you never had— better to let them go
and move on.
a half-mended soul is better than none at all.

IX.



the sound of ribs clattering to the floor.

...

the feeling of ghosts passing through my skin

...

kiss me clumsy, almost not a kiss at all.

...

underneath your stars i watch you shiver,
sunbeams dissolved into shadows
lips crusted over from an oasis that never came.

...

i guess this is where it ends,
between two parentheses
(a last love letter to my paradise).

...

does it end here?

...

i am a black hole meant to be a girl,
i consume the things that try to love me.

///
in progress

X.



kiss me clumsy, almost not a kiss at all

so that i can forget the sound of your ribs shattering on the floor
after i dropped them again, my hands too full of glass-like tears to keep a grip—
clang, clatter, clash— all the words you and i never said, bundled up and thrown against the wall.

let's see if it sticks.

kiss me clumsy, almost not a kiss at all

then let me sink back into your chasm, into your grief, into your soul.
that is where i belong, after all. nestled between your heart beats.
your skin, my skin, the fire beneath your fever.

one last love letter read outloud,
stating my regret for breaking all your bones
just so you'd fit into the places i carved out for you.

XI.



nobody will love you until you chase the demons out of your mouth before you speak.

...

i wrote your name backwards to see if it made more sense that way.

...

the feeling of your ghost, passing through my skin.

...

i wish i knew which way was forward so we didn't have to stand so still

...

the feeling of a ghost, underneath my skin.

...

the feeling of your ghost, burning beneath my skin.

...

the feeling of your voice, shuddering through my lungs.

...

i don't remember the way the song went but i do remember we were laughing


///
in progress