Young Writers Society

Anyone who reads my poetry on the site knows that I am not a very good poet. Here's my final attempt at poetry, I swear. I'm just trying to get better at it. It's not a suicide poem, so I don't anyone stopping halfway through and saying "I hate suicide poems they are so f**king cliche" because really this poem isn't about anything, much less suicide. Okay? Okay. Please comment or I think I may go INSANE.

Some things we won’t ever forget.
Usually, these things are bad.
Mistakes we’ve made,
horrible,
tragic
accidents.
Sometimes they are good, but not usually.

I just want to feel,
she says, as she feels the cold,
sharp,
unsanitary
edge of the blade
against the bones of her hand.
It is pain she feels,
Numbed.

She hears the grinding
of his teeth
as he yanks the knife away from her,
and soon he is feeling the grinding
of the silver
against the veins in his wrist.

She screams,
Blood!
Blood!
Stop it!

And she’s pressing
her body to his,
pinning his wrist against her,
and the blood is running
down the front of her dress,
and still she screams,
even after the bleeding has stopped,
and he is lying
unconscious
in her arms,
cool
from blood loss.

He sees her somewhere else
her dress is not drenched
in the wine of his wrist,
but it is white
with yellow flowers,
like the ones she has looped
together
and crowned him with.

Her heart is thumping
so loudly
he can hear it,
and feel it
reverberate
against his cheek.

He is cool,
very cool,
it must be the breeze
making
her stark blonde hair
fall away
from her face,
covered in freckles,
and he remembers
that her whole body is covered
with them,
his is, too.
But his hair is black.

Then he hears her cry
that the sunlight
makes his hair brown,
and so,
his hair
isn’t black
after all.

Soon, he is back in her arms,
Blinking
up at her,
and there he is,
dark and black,
all over the front of her dress,
she is still screaming.

No, no,
don’t scream,
he tells her,
his voice muffled
by his swollen tongue.
She screams
like she has seen a ghost,
and then cries.
She cries so loud,
like she is screaming
and there is nothing
he can do about it,
except press her golden head
into his chest,
and count
the number
of heart beats
he feels drumming in his ribcage,
against her cheek,
like thunder in her ears.

Now she is sleeping,
and she sees him,
his hair glistening
chestnut
in the afternoon sunlight.