(no subject)
I don't feel like doing genuine work as I feel like I'm about to die and I don't know why (ha, what a rhymester I am) so I am going to instead post some things I've written for creative writing. The class sucked terribly, but oh well.
FYI: I don't believe in titles, so none of them have one. Also, they are also in various states of revision (or lack thereof).
Making love felt like crying. His hands on her hips, her arms around his neck. Every touch, glance, movement were tears running down cheeks, watery sighs, faces growing red.
Love is an unpredictable thing, she thought
She woke up that morning craving raspberries (that meant the day would be promising) and laid in bed watching the sun dapple her body.
She’d dreamed the night before of hands. The hands built up sandcastles taller than anything else. The hands gathered clouds and wildflowers. They explored her body and soil from garden. Love emanated from them with a warm intensity. She woke up blushing.
Whose hands were they? she wondered aloud.
The tea also said that the day would be interesting (but be careful, they said, to remember your umbrella).
Umbrella in hand, she left. The air was golden and the wind smelled like the ocean.
Just like the tea said, it began to rain. Fat warm drops darkened the sidewalk, tapped her on the head. It reminded her of the boy she’d loved when she was a young girl. He was taller and liked to tease. Standing sidebyside he’d drum his fingers on her head. She’d act annoyed, but was secretly pleased. He had beautiful hands, she remembered.
Often, in the midst of teasing, he’d remark on her hair. It’s pretty amazing hair, you should let it down sometime.
She shook out her ever-present braid while walking along. The rain darkened her copper hair.
Humming and thinking about love, she continued walking in the rain feeling the fingers of the boy she used to love run through her hair.
Soon, the rain quickened and the memory of his fingers faded away. She opened the umbrella the color of a mussel shell and walked the rest of the way to the museum listening to the music of her life.
Surrounded by emotions masked as colors, she was almost overwhelmed by the intensity of the Rothko’s and Rembrandt’s. The fluidity of Monet and Mucha was easier. She examined each figure and brushstroke, looking to find a fingerprint left in the paint.
It was still raining when she was getting ready to leave. Umbrella open, she heard a voice behind her.
Mind if I share that with you for a while?
In no particular hurry, she agreed. He held the umbrella for the both of them. Looking over at him, she felt a jolt of recognition when she saw his hands gripping the handle.
At once, she loved him intensely.
Walking the slow pace of strangers in love, they spoke of nothing and everything, understanding that it really meant: i dreamed of red hair last night. iloveyou and i dreamed of hands. iloveyoutoo.
The rain had stopped, but they still remained together. It had had cooled down considerably since that morning. Whenever one of them spoke, clouds formed, keeping their words close.
Do you want to come in with me?
And it lingered above their heads for a moment.
An image of a yellow bird flying out of a crooked tower flashed behind her eyes.
They both knew the answer. And wordlessly they walked up the steps to the door and the home behind it. The rooms smelled of memories and leather.
While making love, she thought of watercolors, the scent of rain, the fingers of the boy she loved as a girl, mussel shells and raspberries. Her heart ached with love for everything, for him, for that scent of memories that he carried. It felt like crying.
Lying together, she traced the outline of hearts all over his body with her finger, a silent meditation.
(do you think we dreamed each other into being?)
Warm hands on flushed cheeks.
Everyone needs to cry sometime.
****************************************************
lying next to me your voice sounds like blood dripping on fallen leaves
corpse hands on soft skin
you think youre so great dont you
i want to reach deep inside you
and pull out your black steaming organs
watch me as i drink your poisonous bile
curious my fingers will explore your insides
poke and prod the emptiness behind your ribs
squirm for me wont you
wiping my lips clean ill smile
tongue sliding across bloodstained teeth
ill spit back every foul tasting lie you ever force fed me
****************************************************
i believe that if you were to cut open our bodies
(both yours and mine)
there would be universes inside
(organs are a lie doctors tell you)
our hearts are galaxies of stars
(we are infinite my dear)
light and dark make our blood
(nothingness and everythingness, that is you and i)
i peel back my skin
(you crack open your ribs)
ballets of rose and azure ebb and flow underneath
(the comets in your chest are blinding)
no one else knows this
(constellations dance in our minds)
i cannot lie to you
(our bodies are heavens)
I wrote these when I was depressed this summer, and one before that when I was happy. Yay.
despite my better inclinations,
i know very little
and understand less.
tell me,
what is the point of a memory
if it is filled with things best forgotten?
i am plagued by memories of
throwaway lines
accidental glances
and light touches
that no one else ever seems to feel.
yet, i remember them all.
crack open my skull,
find a card catalog inside.
each separate instance carefully and dutifully noted
organized by date, cross-referenced by emotion.
a warm breeze floats by,
smelling of open, forgotten places.
here’s a chance- pull open the dusty drawers!
dump out the memories!
burn it all and let the ashes tumble away!
the wind quiets, the air grows still and stagnant again;
everything is safe and hermetically sealed.
you know i can’t throw anything away.
****************************************************
behind me i hear it again,
pop pop pop
shuddering, i feel it up and down the length of my back.
splintering bones, snapping tendons,
that taste of blood that’s so alluring and fascinating
because you know you’re not supposed to enjoy it.
gritting my teeth, squinching my eyes shut, i attempt to block the sound,
as if that will make it stop.
please, just this once? c’mon, cut it out.
absentmindedly as i turn, you look up
unaware of much your cracking joints make me nervous.
no, more then nervous- afraid.
you’re supposed to be permanent, my salvation.
a fortress of adamant that my weak and pitiful soul could cower behind.
the snappop of your thumbkneebackneck reminds me
even the strongest temples crumble under pressure.
you are fallible, my bable, giving way to stronger forces.
i cant handle this yet, be unbreakable a few days more
****************************************************
she was coming to terms with gravity. something of an understanding, really.
years of construction paper, glue and feather attempts at wings
the young icarus could never quite match her father’s accomplishments.
bravely, giddily, steadfastly, she stood at the void again and again
leaping out and briefly elated that it finally worked
watching the feathers tear off her arms
mesmerized at how easily they floated
and how much she didn’t.
bruised in livid colors (the one thing she seemed to do well)
icarus gathered up the remnants of her final failure,
accepting the inevitable.
perhaps gravity is selective. only some can charm it to let go.
brushing away the last few clouds that plagued her imagination,
she refused to look up at the incongruous birds.
instead, she went back to her workshop.
clearing away the feathers and past attempts at beating gravity
she instead got to work at helping it.
her bruises finally fading, she went back to the void
wing-less, but not empty handed.
lonely, grounded icarus instead began to shoot,
pretending that each fluttering, falling bird
(falling as easily as she once did)
was her father, who never once looked back
to help his struggling girl gain the altitude he reached so easily.
now an agent of gravity, bereft of wings,
icarus instead brought them all down to her level
when she once tried to reach his.
and she was finally free.
****************************************************
the feeling is this:
twittering birdmachines singing tinny and true of the
milky blue bleeding into galvanized oaks with
flash-flashing jitterbugs leaping in rainbow arcs.
a scent of chocolate twisting and turning and melting
into the cut summergrass.
{look! the pollen sticks to both of our chins!}
new names for everything shimmer
below the surface of shakingsweaty palms
while ink scrawls images of secrets and promise
inside their lips.
laughing into her mouth he finally understood.
Yeah, it's kind of really long, so I understand if you don't read it, but if you do, that's cool as well.
And as always, they aren't necessarily true.
FYI: I don't believe in titles, so none of them have one. Also, they are also in various states of revision (or lack thereof).
Making love felt like crying. His hands on her hips, her arms around his neck. Every touch, glance, movement were tears running down cheeks, watery sighs, faces growing red.
Love is an unpredictable thing, she thought
She woke up that morning craving raspberries (that meant the day would be promising) and laid in bed watching the sun dapple her body.
She’d dreamed the night before of hands. The hands built up sandcastles taller than anything else. The hands gathered clouds and wildflowers. They explored her body and soil from garden. Love emanated from them with a warm intensity. She woke up blushing.
Whose hands were they? she wondered aloud.
The tea also said that the day would be interesting (but be careful, they said, to remember your umbrella).
Umbrella in hand, she left. The air was golden and the wind smelled like the ocean.
Just like the tea said, it began to rain. Fat warm drops darkened the sidewalk, tapped her on the head. It reminded her of the boy she’d loved when she was a young girl. He was taller and liked to tease. Standing sidebyside he’d drum his fingers on her head. She’d act annoyed, but was secretly pleased. He had beautiful hands, she remembered.
Often, in the midst of teasing, he’d remark on her hair. It’s pretty amazing hair, you should let it down sometime.
She shook out her ever-present braid while walking along. The rain darkened her copper hair.
Humming and thinking about love, she continued walking in the rain feeling the fingers of the boy she used to love run through her hair.
Soon, the rain quickened and the memory of his fingers faded away. She opened the umbrella the color of a mussel shell and walked the rest of the way to the museum listening to the music of her life.
Surrounded by emotions masked as colors, she was almost overwhelmed by the intensity of the Rothko’s and Rembrandt’s. The fluidity of Monet and Mucha was easier. She examined each figure and brushstroke, looking to find a fingerprint left in the paint.
It was still raining when she was getting ready to leave. Umbrella open, she heard a voice behind her.
Mind if I share that with you for a while?
In no particular hurry, she agreed. He held the umbrella for the both of them. Looking over at him, she felt a jolt of recognition when she saw his hands gripping the handle.
At once, she loved him intensely.
Walking the slow pace of strangers in love, they spoke of nothing and everything, understanding that it really meant: i dreamed of red hair last night. iloveyou and i dreamed of hands. iloveyoutoo.
The rain had stopped, but they still remained together. It had had cooled down considerably since that morning. Whenever one of them spoke, clouds formed, keeping their words close.
Do you want to come in with me?
And it lingered above their heads for a moment.
An image of a yellow bird flying out of a crooked tower flashed behind her eyes.
They both knew the answer. And wordlessly they walked up the steps to the door and the home behind it. The rooms smelled of memories and leather.
While making love, she thought of watercolors, the scent of rain, the fingers of the boy she loved as a girl, mussel shells and raspberries. Her heart ached with love for everything, for him, for that scent of memories that he carried. It felt like crying.
Lying together, she traced the outline of hearts all over his body with her finger, a silent meditation.
(do you think we dreamed each other into being?)
Warm hands on flushed cheeks.
Everyone needs to cry sometime.
****************************************************
lying next to me your voice sounds like blood dripping on fallen leaves
corpse hands on soft skin
you think youre so great dont you
i want to reach deep inside you
and pull out your black steaming organs
watch me as i drink your poisonous bile
curious my fingers will explore your insides
poke and prod the emptiness behind your ribs
squirm for me wont you
wiping my lips clean ill smile
tongue sliding across bloodstained teeth
ill spit back every foul tasting lie you ever force fed me
****************************************************
i believe that if you were to cut open our bodies
(both yours and mine)
there would be universes inside
(organs are a lie doctors tell you)
our hearts are galaxies of stars
(we are infinite my dear)
light and dark make our blood
(nothingness and everythingness, that is you and i)
i peel back my skin
(you crack open your ribs)
ballets of rose and azure ebb and flow underneath
(the comets in your chest are blinding)
no one else knows this
(constellations dance in our minds)
i cannot lie to you
(our bodies are heavens)
I wrote these when I was depressed this summer, and one before that when I was happy. Yay.
despite my better inclinations,
i know very little
and understand less.
tell me,
what is the point of a memory
if it is filled with things best forgotten?
i am plagued by memories of
throwaway lines
accidental glances
and light touches
that no one else ever seems to feel.
yet, i remember them all.
crack open my skull,
find a card catalog inside.
each separate instance carefully and dutifully noted
organized by date, cross-referenced by emotion.
a warm breeze floats by,
smelling of open, forgotten places.
here’s a chance- pull open the dusty drawers!
dump out the memories!
burn it all and let the ashes tumble away!
the wind quiets, the air grows still and stagnant again;
everything is safe and hermetically sealed.
you know i can’t throw anything away.
****************************************************
behind me i hear it again,
pop pop pop
shuddering, i feel it up and down the length of my back.
splintering bones, snapping tendons,
that taste of blood that’s so alluring and fascinating
because you know you’re not supposed to enjoy it.
gritting my teeth, squinching my eyes shut, i attempt to block the sound,
as if that will make it stop.
please, just this once? c’mon, cut it out.
absentmindedly as i turn, you look up
unaware of much your cracking joints make me nervous.
no, more then nervous- afraid.
you’re supposed to be permanent, my salvation.
a fortress of adamant that my weak and pitiful soul could cower behind.
the snappop of your thumbkneebackneck reminds me
even the strongest temples crumble under pressure.
you are fallible, my bable, giving way to stronger forces.
i cant handle this yet, be unbreakable a few days more
****************************************************
she was coming to terms with gravity. something of an understanding, really.
years of construction paper, glue and feather attempts at wings
the young icarus could never quite match her father’s accomplishments.
bravely, giddily, steadfastly, she stood at the void again and again
leaping out and briefly elated that it finally worked
watching the feathers tear off her arms
mesmerized at how easily they floated
and how much she didn’t.
bruised in livid colors (the one thing she seemed to do well)
icarus gathered up the remnants of her final failure,
accepting the inevitable.
perhaps gravity is selective. only some can charm it to let go.
brushing away the last few clouds that plagued her imagination,
she refused to look up at the incongruous birds.
instead, she went back to her workshop.
clearing away the feathers and past attempts at beating gravity
she instead got to work at helping it.
her bruises finally fading, she went back to the void
wing-less, but not empty handed.
lonely, grounded icarus instead began to shoot,
pretending that each fluttering, falling bird
(falling as easily as she once did)
was her father, who never once looked back
to help his struggling girl gain the altitude he reached so easily.
now an agent of gravity, bereft of wings,
icarus instead brought them all down to her level
when she once tried to reach his.
and she was finally free.
****************************************************
the feeling is this:
twittering birdmachines singing tinny and true of the
milky blue bleeding into galvanized oaks with
flash-flashing jitterbugs leaping in rainbow arcs.
a scent of chocolate twisting and turning and melting
into the cut summergrass.
{look! the pollen sticks to both of our chins!}
new names for everything shimmer
below the surface of shakingsweaty palms
while ink scrawls images of secrets and promise
inside their lips.
laughing into her mouth he finally understood.
Yeah, it's kind of really long, so I understand if you don't read it, but if you do, that's cool as well.
And as always, they aren't necessarily true.