Category: Writing 211 (Page 1 of 2)

When she leaves the ginger ale and the bowl of fried rice

behind our door, I almost tell her she forgot

to bring you yours, but like the smell of cooked sausage

and broccoli we’d enjoy after a walk through the snow,

it strikes me like blinding lightning, the growling of

my stomach not unlike a cold rain that freezes

once it touches the skin of my hands— scarred but too soft

to be held, slipping through fingers like the grains of rice

as you stir it in with the eggs and the carrots and the peas,

garnishing it with green onions before you bring it over,

asking me if the fever’s gone down, only to check for yourself

with a kiss gentle as a snowflake on a winter night.

The smell brings back late nights holding hands and

watching stars, then the blade of the chef knife slices my hand

and my heart, the timer of ten years goes off, my hands red

as the little slices of pepper she’s added, her own signature touch,

growing cold as I sit there, my head pounding as you leave me 

all over again, and I drown in the sticky brightness, surrounded by

the ice cubes that won’t soothe this fever of the mind.

I sit in my chair, eyes drifting close,

Curtains drawing on the infinite stage.

I awake in our room, a vacant shell

Of the world before it all went to hell.

The sheets still smell like your orchid shampoo,

Your softer-than-moon sweater draped over

The chair, lifting up a strand of your hair

To the tides and the sky like an abandoned prayer.

A knock on the door, but it is not you,

So I ignore it and return to painting a portrait

Of the one and only person who ever cared,

Only to leave me behind with words unshared.

You call my name, and I stand, my tired eyes 

Searching for you, only to be met with a specter.

You hold your gift to me in your hand, one that I

Can’t accept, so I close my eyes and I try to lie,

But I can’t lie, not to you, so instead, we fall

Through the floor, through the ocean waves,

Pinkies intertwined as I jolt awake. 

He crosses

His arms, sister by his side, and as he faintly smiles

I remind myself that it’s all for them, even

If it means I’ll only ever see you in my dreams.

The ducks don’t come around here anymore.

The sun wounds the earth, the water hot.

You needed to make a swing by the shore,

For your kids to never sit in— let the wood rot.

Let the earth bake some more for your pleasure.

At noon, on the couch, you snore,

Dreaming about a dragon fighting a robot.

You can’t see that in my head, there’s a war,

One you started where only I get shot.

Like the ducks, your damage has no measure.

Zoë sits next to me in the bleachers,

The mask of shyness falling away

As the game takes root in the blue turf.

I am blind to understanding

what causes her to cheer,

But I see the flames of excitement 

In her grin as we take silly pictures,

And breathe in the cold, crisp air.

I sit now in a dorm down the hall

From where she now resides,

Surrounded by five, now understanding

Something beyond rugby.

I have a heart that should be of steel,

But it is glass, smooth and easily broken.

It is the reason I forbid myself from love,

The reason why I avoid talking about you.

My mother is a glassblower,

Hand-crafting something full of light.

My father plays baseball,

And he cracks my windows.

You say you don’t play baseball,

But you throw stones instead

And then lie about it afterwards.

I don’t throw baseballs or stones,

but I’m too scared to make something,

so I offer shards of myself to join the dustbin

Of other shattered things,

hoping they’ll use me and a soldering iron

to piece themselves together again.

Will the next person offer me a grinding stone,

or a hammer meant for a rage room?

Every word you text me twists my gut like a knife,

everything you do simply another stab with that

bejeweled dagger, all wrapped in the gold you’ve collected,

the gold you say I have to earn, like you have no duty to me.

Every single time you say her name,

a hand with knives for nails pulls my heart

from my chest and squeezes, my blood

splattering on my shoes, soaking into my socks.

Cold,

Arrogant,

Insensitive,

Tactless,

Late,

Infuriating,

Narcissistic to a degree,

That is what you are, just as intended to be.

A grown man of forty-seven, a petulant child who

shouldn’t be trusted with sharp objects,

as you only use them to wound,

and you’ve carved out your eyes so you don’t have to watch

me bleed all over your stupid carpet.

(Our) Blue Spring Sky (Died 10 Years Ago)

X-mas came again this year,

the December chill bitter,

lonelier (without you).

The night sky has lost

its moon, now an infinite void

(without you here).

I wore my heart on my sleeve,

(put it in your cold hands,)

but I’ve lost it (to you, you alone).

Winter (claimed you today, but)

has forgotten me, like the sky

forgot its blue spring

(—the one that should’ve lasted forever

but never could).

I miss that blue spring sky.

(I miss you, the one that holds my heart

underground.)

Writing Reflection

After a long while of coming up with potential ideas for my drafty-draft poem, I ultimately decided to look at my interests for inspiration, specifically books and television shows. Having recently watched a show with a lot of symbolism and a relationship between two characters that stood out to me, I found myself inspired to write a poem about this relationship, as it is similar to a dynamic I’ve been trying to work on in one of my personal projects, and I love the tragic arc that parallels the positive one of the main characters. At first, I tried to focus on the (supposed) ending of this relationship, which takes place on Christmas Eve and results in the death of one of the two characters. I contrasted the emotions and setting of their ending with that of the beginning of their storyline— Christmas Eve and a warm spring day. I also mentioned the night sky in one of the stanzas, as the two characters are associated with dark and light respectively. As I wrote my first draft, I felt something was missing, as I hadn’t added a title, and the poem was initially very short. Two days later, I decided to add parentheses around the phrases addressing the dead person in the relationship, as I felt it showcased the hidden vulnerability of the speaker. Overall, I didn’t struggle with crafting the poem, save for length, as I have a habit of writing more narratively.

Bookmaking Reflection

When decorating my book, I wanted to primarily focus on the symbolism in the dynamic of light and dark. In the show, there’s a scene in one of the end credits involving two betta fish. I looked this up out of curiosity. If you put two male betta fish together, they will fight until they destroy each other, and possibly themselves in the possible. I thought this image and the context of the betta fish exemplified the tragic nature of their dynamic, so I chose to draw two betta fish on the cover, one white and healthy, the other black and damaged. Inside the book, I included a yin-yang drawing, as it again displays the light-dark dynamic, but also the necessity for the opposing forces. My poem makes mention of Christmas, so I included a drawing of a Christmas tree but left it without ornaments in hopes of illustrating the numbness that now surrounds the holiday for the speaker. I also drew polaroids with various dates to illustrate the passing of time and the memories contained within it. On the back cover, I used sticky notes to make a separation between the drawing of a grave and the coffin beneath it. The grave symbolizes the death of the speaker’s lost love, while the coffin has a heart on it, as in the poem’s final draft, there is the line “I miss you, the one who holds my heart.”

She stands at the edge— 

slick with sweat thick as saliva—

The abyss below her licking its lips,

The roar of traffic not unlike some great

Stomach growling with a dark hunger.

It’s a far way to jump, but it is natural, 

Like a drop of wine sliding down a man’s gullet.

Her feet rest on the bridge’s edge,

Like a crumb about to fall through teeth.

Her heart grumbles like her stomach 

does without breakfast. Bile rises in her throat, 

like she will vomit the gourmet meal of 

cheese and crackers from yesterday.

When she leaps off the edge,

It tastes like ice cream, sweet and cool,

And when she drops into the stomach acid 

Of the river’s body, everything stops.

He stops, his voice too calm, too nonchalant.

I demand why, but his answers don’t make any sense—

calmer than the night sky, colder than the stars.

The crowd doesn’t seem to hear me,

And I don’t even see them anymore.

I accuse him, he doesn’t even try to deny it—

he even dares to call me arrogant for 

telling him his path isn’t possible.

I can hear his voice in my head:

Saying what I try to say now, only better, always better.

He asks me a question, one that reduces me—

And I grit my teeth against the ache in my chest.

A wordless threat comes from me, and he tells me

I can do it if I want, that at least there’d be a point to that,

As if there was a point to any of it other than to be my—

He vanishes, I clench my fist. Dark leaves light,

The tables turned, the roles reversed, 

Weak and strong, the whole world wrong.

Her shoes shine ruby red against the white door frame,

covering silver toes that climb into chainlink legs,

the mesh dress revealing every bit of darkness

behind her, every inch of not-flesh-flesh half-obscured.

As she holds the phone in her hand, she scoffs,

lips curled in a smile at the latest text message on screen.

Her hair has crawled out of the sixties,

framing a face that feels like it belongs behind 

a thick layer of fog, or a sleek scarf,

just those gray eyes peering out

as she asks you what you’re doing at her house,

even though the open door is clearly an invitation.

You look at her, determined not to flinch under

that piercing, steel-sharp gaze. You lift your hand

in a small wave, smile on your lipless face

as you say that same damn, lame line:

“I just wanted to see you again.”