Young Writers Society

table of contents

1. they wonder if I'm cursed
2. the cardiovascular system is creepy
3. swapping brains/taking a painkiller
4.
5.
6.
7.

They see me drift out of the double doors, chin tucked like I'm
at the deep end and this close to diving.
My mouth rests with its corners burrowed slightly,
and they watch my eyes trace the parking lot asphalt without
really taking it in: the dried gum and scrunched up Timmie's cups
and the wet patch where someone wrote "HELLo" like a
school welcome mat. Then they guess my eyes snag on
them standing next to Portable 115 and they guess I decide
not to dive, as they watch my mouth quickly hoist its corners up.
I offer a wave. And they wonder if I just took down a wall or
just put one up

i can't explain it, why i hate them so much: the way they pulse under my skin like they carry the loose bits of conversations with sharp edges (i feel words treading through my bloodstream every time i stop talking to you). The way sometimes just a small bit of one will surface, looking like a lonesome stitch below my skin. And i search desperately for a seam ripper, because i would rather pull myself apart as if i were a skeleton inside of a scarecrow than be a whole piece of flesh and disgusting. i hate the way the purple lines run over my knuckles and twist like worms trying to dig themself out of the earth when it rains, always on the lookout for petrichor (my breath smells like petrichor and every time i speak the worms squirm, so i've stopped talking). And i hate the way you roll your eyes and say "get over it, they're just part of you" because don't you get it, hun? the veins are part of me and that's why i hate them.

3. swapping brains/taking a painkiller

you asked to swap brains today, because nine-day migraines take a toll, and then i realized that i am always going to be alone in my head. like, i cannot set my brain out on a sill and invite people to come peer at the display:

you know, just some habitual window-shopping. i want to extend my brain to you, in my hand, a few non-vital neurons slithering out the side of my fist. but there's this thing called anatomy, and nervous systems, and not being a game of operation/

/no one will ever understand the way my brain operates, and i know it sounds so cliche and self-obsessed and wannabe-protagonist of me, but maybe thoughts are overused because they're so true. i just want to hand off the whole responsibility thing to someone else for a bit, let them comb out all these thistles from my thoughts. i want to let someone else figure out my personality and help me choose actions that are consistent with my character. i want to set up a hammock in my hippocampus and invite you over and we can chill for a bit watching memories play on rewind. but i just shrug and say i'm not sure you'd want my brain and

have you tried advil?

Hi Seirre! Great going on your NaPoWeek so far I'm seeing a lot of visceral imagery, and a lot of close-knit, tightly packed words, like a brain in a jar. Very distinct poetic voice as well -- with the colloquialisms like "the whole responsibility thing" and "don't you get it, hun?". These poems feel set in present time, if that makes sense. And it looks like your prose poetry experiments are expanding as well to include more plays with punctuation.

I love this! I especially like the almost "stream of consciousness" writing style, it's really blunt and poetic in that way.

Thank you both! <3 I was experimenting a lot with voice, so I'm glad that came across, @Liminality! And I definitely know what you mean by set in present time.

Aw thank you so much @camcam - I adore blunt poetry, so I'm really flattered that's how you find these poems c: