Young Writers Society

i like rocks, but they have no powers fight me on this one, i dare you

you're toxic. not like arsenic,
you're not that basic.
you're my malachite.

i'd use you in the same ways
to pretty myself up,
but when i break you down
for your finer bits-
something more digestible
and easier to percieve-
that's when you finally
enter my lungs.

and i've never blown you
any of my kisses made up of
diamonds
because you taint and take
the air out of my lungs.

you used to be mined for your
copper but cast aside
for something easier.
and i keep you in my rings
(please oh please give me one already)
not because of your previous value,
but from what i see
in you now.

i've weighed out the effects
and your beauty is more beneficial
than any toxicity you harbor.

you are delicate malachite and
improper care can bring about decay.
no one cared enough to look at your instructions,
so why bother keeping them?

i'd forge what remanence you had
left of how to foster you and allow
you to shine.
(like how i forged you in the first place.)

and i'd wear your beauty with pride.

doing good deeds is not transactional

can you please let me love you?
you don't owe my anything, i understand,
but it would be nice if i knew what i had for you
was received well or if it just embarrasses you.

i think i should know by now how many times
you thought of something i did for you
and had to shake it away like an etch-a-sketch
because you didn't want to blush in front of your friends.

we don't have this connection thing
that usually happens when a person confesses.
i think i might be responsible for any negative thing
you feel, because you've been responsible for much
of my feelings of the past five or so years.

i don't blame it on you, of course.
after all, i have no emotional object permanence
so i forget that day on saturday, january 3rd 2023
when i was told to stop loving you.
oh or a thursday, february, 9th when i thought
i stopped loving you.

i don't remember it at all.

in many ways, i don't think anyone will cry as
hard as i do for you.
because they never felt your presence (a
small aura smugness mixed with something
that could be loved through cultivation
that would only take someone so blind as me
to try and nurture)
the same way i did.

i mean, i guess the worst you can say is no.
and i'd have to take it gracefully
as your words are the pain of being en pointe.

but after all, i can't blame you.
i did this to myself.

you. you, indescribable you.

you and i are quite the same,
but i will love you more than i ever
thought i could love myself.
in a way, i'm cultivating self love
with all the little bits of me
i see in you.

i don't like tall people,
its a personal gripe of mine because
i'll never reach the heights
to heaven.
for me, dear, i love your stance
because with effortless tranquility
you can grab a star for me from the other side
of the universe.
i'd fit perfectly in your arms,
and you are my throne,
one to never be passed down.

your hands are art.
with our rings to click together
as our fingers intertwine and get knotted,
no crease would go unnoticed.
to carve out the negative space and make room
for you in this world is greater than creation.

craters in your face and caves in your cheeks.
a dimple is a genetic mutation,
but i see it each time you're happy.
a mutation which only comes about when a person
is most joyful
is something to behold.
they are small and deep like
lake aiso.
mine are wide and shallow
like the puddle i drive across
on my way to see you.

i can't read a single face in the world.
i am illiterate until i know what each shying glance
means because when push comes to shove,
you're the only book i've read.
and i continue to re-read because you are a comfort.
you don't have cheap plot endings,
you have sustainability.
it is a brand new start, each time i look.

your voice is one always on the verve of breaking,
but it is delicate and soft.
talk for hours about the dumbest things.
your voice might not sound like time itself,
but it is immortal.
you saying my name is akin to doves flying down
from the skyline and giving me
a crown of laurels.
i sit down and think if every breath might have been
the same air you breathed once.

i love you so deeply because i cannot love
if i do not love each vein
in which your life
is surged.

i'mliterallyrunningoutofideastomakethingsoriginalhelp

i'm running out of ways to describe you.
how else can it go?
i think i've come up with something.

roses are red
voilets are blue
except they're not
either way, i'd lick the inside
of your gum wrapper to get a taste of you.

bad pick-up lines, do they do anything?
do you go from the V to the I?
because i think you're perfect.
you're a satisfying resolution in an
interval where anyone
can really do anything.

i'm committed, alright. to what? i haven't thought about it much.

you and i are marks on a whiteboard:
easy to wipe away, but smudges and stains
stay forever.

i've decided a long time ago to write to you
in permanent ink, a cardinal sin for these types of things.
i'm still waiting for you to do the same.

you are wishy-washy in much the same way
as a whiteboard marking.

i would snort your clever lines
to get an emotional high,
but they were written temporarily
in a text that can easily be deleted and forgotten.

i hope you feel the bitterness in your mouth
and the atmosphere of contempt
and disappointment when i see you,
even if being proven right hurts less than having hopes crushed.

make it to the end of armageddon with me (or at least stay until i decide to leave)

i envy what they have
when i wish i could be jealous.
i heard about how thrilling it is to hold hands
for the first time with someone it is they love.
i wish i could hold his hand and imagine his grip
in mine tighten when he realized what he has
and never wants to let go.

immature love is exhausting,
but mature love is energizing.
my baseline is being too tired to brush my
teeth at night,
but still finding time to craft my soul into
gifts for him.
it doesn't energize me, though, it only
fuels me for my limited days.

he is a conduit for my love.
my tears surge through him when i finally
realize what passion is
and it overwhelms me.
the molecular structure is different
and it shows.

i love him more than the air i breathe
because i remember what gift it is to live when
i glance around my living body and see myself unfulfilled.
and what gift it is to love so violently that i would
disrupt the whole natural order of things
for him to sleep soundly next to me
while i'm awake by insomnia
but drifting myself away by making
finger tracings of his face.

i wouldn't slide the end of the world to him
on a platter like the head of john the baptist.
i'd have it clutched in my hands
-like how god holds our universe-
and cup it into his.
like how life hands over a soul to death
is how i'd give every gift
because he'll take care of it the way he knows best.

"and you must keep your soul like a secret in your throat"

i've had this blood red lipstick
for years, and only now i put it on
and wonder what it would look like
smudged on your ivory white skin.
your jugular is teasing as my lips
lay gently on it.
and the flow gets faster and faster
while i stifle smiles.
you don't know what you got yourself into.

i will kiss you over and over again
like i've done on my walls for years.
the stain of the pigment on the separations
of your neck will streak down like
the tears from your glass eyes.

in the same way, i bite my tongue around you
and end up biting my lip,
and the wound runs down down down.

with that one profession of love you are a part
of my legion, not of the undead,
but of the living through love.
if someone spoke your name
over my cenotaph,
i would visit the funeral
as a mourner in the procession
just to hear your name again.

my hands chill yours
like the moon filled night
while we both wear white long-sleeves.
after all, with innocence and purity,
white is a romantic color.
it is stark and striking
like how we have become after just one bite.

mirrors never worked, but i don't need the longing anymore.
i see my reflection in the mirror of your eyes
which have jaundiced over the years.
i would rather us, though, drunkenly describe
each other while laying down on the wood tiles
of our mansion after a long night out
and the sun is bearing its light for us to die by.

it reminds me what that band
of romantic chemicals said:
"vampires will never hurt you."