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The Police Report

by Snoink


Didn't you hear?

That little girl that you knew who would nuzzle
her head into your neck and give you little
butterfly kisses along your cheeks? That girl who
painted pictures of heaven and taped them to the refrigerator doors
so that everyone could see? The little girl who cried in your arms as you,
weak from labor, pressed her to your breasts and
stroked the membrane-soaked hair from her unopened eyes?

Yeah, she killed herself today. Shot her face off.
Said the world didn't understand, said that she didn't understand
why pain was so real and encompassing. She said that
it wasn't anybody's fault, she just had too many bad days and she couldn't
take it anymore. And foul play was ruled out. The note was written in the
handwriting we took from your mother's day card that said how much she
loved you and how much she appreciated that you were always there, even when
you yelled and cried and screamed in frustration as you watched the
bloody wads of tissues pile up in the trash and your vodka and
prescription drugs disappear from your cabinets. She even loved you
when you hid the razors and flushed the drugs, though she screamed and cried and
cut herself with kitchen knives, deeper, deeper.

And she couldn't stand to hear you cry in your room, late at night when you thought
no one was there. Because she knew you were stroking your cheeks,
imagining her kisses lining your face, and she
couldn't do that anymore. That was why she ripped up all the pictures
taped to the refrigerator doors and fell to her knees, crying,
as heaven lay shredded at her feet. That's why she stole the gun.
That's why she's dead.

And here are the things left in her pockets -- chapstick, two dollars and
thirty-four cents, hair pins, the lip gloss she always liked, a coupon to her favorite
sandwich shop, and a phone number to that boy she liked that liked her back
but she was too afraid to call. Right now, he is in his room, crying his eyes out.

But you cannot stop. There are funeral arrangements to be made
about the size of the coffin, the lettering of the gravestones,
and the flowers that you will never be able to smell again.
You'll need to talk with people, and they will want to talk and every explanation
will relive the horror once more as you hold your arms around your chest,
remembering once that you pressed her there and loved her and that
you will never see her again.

And maybe when you get home, you can pick up the pieces of the papers,
still left on the kitchen floor, and brush them against your tears as you pray that
heaven is a real place and death is only fleeting.


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131 Reviews

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Sun Jun 12, 2011 11:04 pm
322sivart wrote a review...



Hey Snoink,
Here is your requested review, belated three months I'm afraid, sorry about that. I've returned to YWS after some time after somewhat of a hiatus from writing.
Anyway, I've always been a fan of narrative poetry such as this, and this piece was unmistakeably incredible. Your imagery and the way that you made your reader get in tune with their own senses was phonomenal, especially the reoccuring touch imagery of kisses on the cheek.
Your somewhat vaugeness and nonchalant way of presenting this 'story', if you will, made this truly gripping and your sideways method of describing how this girl was feeling really clings to the emotions of your reader. This might be my favorite part:

And here are the things left in her pockets -- chapstick, two dollars and
thirty-four cents, hair pins, the lip gloss she always liked, a coupon to her favorite
sandwich shop, and a phone number to that boy she liked that liked her back
but she was too afraid to call. Right now, he is in his room, crying his eyes out.


That's talent right there, keep writing and let me know if you write anything else like this!
-Alex




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Mon Feb 28, 2011 2:20 pm
Jas says...



I know I reviewed this earlier but I'm in journalism and it's been stuck in my head for some time. So I came back and re-read it. And fell in love a bit more. This is the type of poetry I like reading not that sappy flowery crap or emosob stuff (even though this is kind of emosob but in a good way). :D




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336 Reviews

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Mon Feb 28, 2011 12:10 pm
Jas wrote a review...



Hey,

Woah. Snoinksy writes poetry goodliek! As you know, I'm a terrible reviewer but I'll try only on account of FREAK and it's epicness. So, I really liked this. It was very real, really emotional and struck home even though I'm not a mother to a dead girl. A friend of mine committed suicide a couple of months ago and while I could say that I've come to terms that you know, she's not coming back, I'm not really understanding that she's dead. One problem I saw in this was your organization. I have a pretty open mind on what's considered a poem, verse wise but this read like a short story which does not seem very good. I'm not actually sure on how to fix that because I have that problem a lot but at least I addressed the problem. :D Hmm, I really loved the heaven thing and how you interwined it so well, the last couple of lines were probably my favorite and the ending was really strong. Overall, I think you had a great poem here, regardless of organization glitches. :D

~Jas




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Mon Feb 28, 2011 10:01 am
Jennya wrote a review...



Hey, nice and very emotional poem. I like the colloquial direct to your face tone, it gives it a nice personal feel. Almost hard boiled in a good way. My first initial feeling was about the length, Personally i don't like long poetry unless it's epic poetry. I'm also particular about the shape, yours had no real shape of visible structure. These are just opinions of course.

I don't like how your lines are set out you could do it differently and it would be easier to read, but the actual content was good. But it didn't really seem like a poem more an open letter. I loved the first and fourth paragraph, very human.But for some reason i don't empathize with the subject but as a person I'm pretty apathetic (keeps me sane) so it's not really your fault.

Anyway great work! I'm sorry i couldn't correct any grammar, I'm not good with that stuff.





History repeats itself. First as tragedy, second as farce.
— Karl Marx