I was fifteen years old when I died
And did not die.
The shrouds are gone from the mirrors,
The end of the mourning marked, strangely,
By the loss of my mother and brother.
I have not seen my face for months.
I can not be sure —
(in any way besides the innate (misplaced) trust
that we have in the honesty of mirrors)
— that the face on the other side is mine.
There is a gauntness to my cheeks I do not recognize.
There is a shifting of shadows not triggered by the light.
My fingers reach out towards the glass and touch
Warm hands and ragged nails.
I was fifteen years old when I died
And did not die.
My visions skews sideways
and goes black.
This was a rework of an older poem that I wrote (inspired very heavily by Welcome to Night Vale) that I repurposed and rewrote for the “split” prompt for OctPoWriMo.
Sometimes I miss my grandmother’s old flip-clock
That sat perfectly centered on the white crocheted doily
On her bedside table,
And how at 11:11, I would hold my breath and wish
Until the soft flutter of the numbers turning over,
Like a closed door, like a turned page, like something new.
Now, I watch the glowing LED.
The numbers cast my room with a sickly glow,
And at 11:11, I hold my breath and wish.
Time slips silently by, one moment to the next.
I keep holding my breath.
This was written for the number prompt during OctPoWriMo.
Today is a day of pretty substantial catching up; I’ve had poems 27 and 28 already written for a few days now, I just haven’t had an opportunity to post, and poem 29 is nearly finished (but not quite). I’m hoping to get all four out today and be officially caught up.
This has been a crazy month creatively, and I’m a little nervous about delving into NaNoWriMo on Thursday having had no real time to prep, but hey. I pantsed for years – twice I won with the pantsing method (like, thirteen times I lost, but let’s… let’s just not right now, okay?)
You came into the world red-faced, howling;
Your eyes the tumultuous blue of a storm-wrecked sea.
You’d weathered a storm to see me, screamed to the skies
As you were borne, tempest-tossed, into a strange new world.
Now, your eyes, the clear blue of a summer morning;
Your smile an incandescent thing that can dispel the darkest clouds.
You were never meant for December: your aster eyes shine,
Joy blooms across your face like a perpetual April.
This was written for OctPoWriMo – late, during a bust weekend! – and is a blank verse poem written for the color prompt.
We wait until your parents fall asleep before we clamor out your bedroom window — hardly a grand gesture in a bungalow, but the feeling, God, the feeling is a low, delicious tingle somewhere just above your tailbone that makes all your hair stand on end and your joints feel just a bit like they’re melting. We’re twelve years old, and we don’t even go anywhere, because that’s not the point, damn it; the point is, we could — we could. There’s no sound, no creaking doors or lights flicked on, no acknowledgement at all that we are no longer huddled safely in our sleeping bags on your bedroom floor. We could leave. We could disappear.
We settle in the grass, the blades brittle from the summer sun, but damp in the late-night humidity. In the silence, only crickets, and the soft knocking of moths, battering their wings against your screen door. The sky is limitlesss, and we lie in breathless silence, momentarily overwhelmed by the boundlessness above us.
Within us as well
Vast unexplored expanses
Thrill and terrify
This poem was written for OctPoWriMo, and is once again in the form of haibun (prose poetry followed be a haiku). The month is winding down, but feel free to jump at any tiime if the mood strikes.
To you, I offered up my heart;
Beating, red, on a silver platter.
Hungrily, you rent it apart;
I felt each gnash, each tear, each tatter.
Retching, in ruin, I asked how it was;
A smile stretched out your terrible jaws,
And in a voice dripping with pleasure,
Say, “To tell the truth, I’ve had much better.”
This is for OctPoWriMo, which you should all be following, for real!. This is an Italian form called a rispetto, which I’ve really fudged the meter on, but hey, all’s fair in love and poetry.
Are We Damned?
Are we damned? Then take my hand, my friend;
We’ll saunter into hell with head’s held high,
Smiling brightly as we meet our end.
With all our good and bad deeds, quantified
I’m counting on you being by my side
Through the ever winding labrynith of forever.
So long as you’re with me, I can abide:
Hell hath no fury, so long as we’re together.
This is for OctPoWriMo, and a sure sign I’ve been reading too much fanfic in a certain fandom. This is a French form called a huitain.
Today’s prompt was basically, how do you know if love is real? I didn’t love the suggested forms, so I did a Petrarchan sonnet. Woohoo!
How Do You Know If Love Is Real?
The simple, honest answer is: you don’t.
We are, each of us, servants to desire:
What in our hearts today may light a fire
It’s possible tomorrow that it won’t.
We only must embrace it here and now;
Live each day to the fullest as it comes,
And trust that if they really are The One
Not time nor circumstance shall disavow.
So say that we’re in love, for we may be;
A conceit in which we both are in accord;
A story told in both our voices true.
Should we reach the end together, you and me,
We can know that each the other most adored–
For now, I’ll just enjoy the tale with you.
This is for OctPoWriMo, 31 poems in (ideally) 31 days. I’m behind, but I’m writing! You should too, if the inspiration moves you.