Secrets (poem)

the venomous jaws of
a secret
wrap their spikes
around me,
crushing the glass
of my heart into sand.
i open my mouth–
that too falls apart.

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Fairy Mail (250 Word Story)

I wrote this for the NYC Midnight Microfiction contest.  We had to write a 250 word story in 24 hours using the prompts given.

My prompts were:

Genre: Fairy tale or fantasy

Action: Delivering a letter

Word (to be included in story): Parched

Felicity had been travelling for weeks. She was parched but knew that she was near her destination. She was small, even for a fairy, and this journey had taken her to places she had never been. She didn’t often see humans; she spent most of her life in the woodlands, attending to the needs of elves. Here she was, in a city full of people. It was overwhelming, especially considering how humans walked. Their giant, undignified feet stomped around, without a single care as to what they might step on. The elves were much more elegant; their feet danced to the ground. In the city of Alsmel, it was chaos.

161 Farryn Street was the address embedded on the scroll that Felicity was to deliver. It was a human-sized scroll and weighed down like a bag of woodchips. She often carried woodchips for the elves, so they could make beautiful accessories out of them.

Felicity was just a courier and knew nothing of the letter she was delivering. She only knew that delivering it was of the utmost importance. Felicity found the address and used some magic to sound the bell.

A man with a beard opened the door. Judging from his staff, he was a wizard.

“You have a letter?” He asked.

“Yes,” Felicity replied, taking off the scroll wrapped around her. The man knelt down and picked it up.

“Thank you.”

Felicity could relax, at last – or so she thought. For then, the wizard read the letter.

Shapes

I have lines on my arms. They resemble a check-list. One, two, three, four. I guess I haven’t reached five yet. If I get to five, will it have to go diagonal like in those check-lists? I don’t want to think about what will happen if I get to five.

My friend has circles on her arms. Big, round circles. I wonder why she has circles and not lines. Sometimes they overlap, like in a venn diagram. I often think about what connects the circles together and why they intersect.

Today is a good day. I have not been cut by any triangles yet. Triangles have sharp edges. They are at their worst when they are equilateral. This means all points are as sharp as each other.

My friend is not having a good day. She has a new circle but it is not on her arm. It is over her eye. I wonder why it is there. Venn diagrams connect circles, so why should it be there? Is she starting a new one?

Just as I open my mouth to ask her, I realise that a triangle is lodged in her brain. If I talk to her, she might well throw it at me, and I don’t want that. I don’t say a thing.

A new line appears on my arm. It isn’t diagonal after all.

I exist

Another day.

The birds are singing, the cats are howling, the dogs are yapping. Everyone is up but you. You lie in bed, stiffened by the thoughts that tighten the ropes around you. You’re still, motionless, yet completely awake. You want to get up, to have a life, to just say hi to someone, but you can’t. Your body is paralyzed by the cuffs of sadness. You find no meaning, no reason, to exist but you also find no meaning, no reason, not to exist. It is as if you are caught between the two. This feeling means that you do not want to die but you do not want to live either. You are caught in a bind that strangles you with every breath.

Every day that goes by, you feel the knots tightening, until you’re almost completely wrapped up in them. You can speak, you can move, you can live, but you don’t. You become just another blade of grass. Your presence is not acknowledged, not anymore. You don’t exist… but you do. You know that you exist and you want to scream it from the rooftops but, again, you don’t. You won’t.

“Help…” you utter, still tied up in bed.
And with that, the ropes burn, leaving scars on your arms. The scars will never leave your arms but they will fade overtime. You realise now that you are finally free to speak, to move, to live.

You get up, you go outside, and you scream.

“I exist!”

You can breathe again.

Jealous

is it wrong to be jealous?
to want to enjoy what you like,
to want to experience what you see,
to be able to be by your side,
and not just an extra part.
is it wrong to be yearning
for a part of your life?
i want to be like you,
i want to be happy
and smart and fun
but im just me.
no one wants to be me.

Depression Is Why

Depression is easy.
When people leave you behind,
When they wish you well,
But don’t do anything to suggest
that they mean it —
When you’re left all alone,
Just a lonely girl in a room alone,
They’re going off to places
and you’re in the bathroom
crying,
but maybe they do like you;
they just don’t understand.
You want love, you crave it,
Like a cat or a dog,
It’s your energy, it keeps you going,
But seeing them happy
makes you smile for a moment,
Only a moment,
as you realise,
you’ll never be good enough
because you’re you and they’re them.
They can go into the world and embrace
the love of everyone around them,
because that’s what being normal is —
and you aren’t like them,
that’s why they left you alone.
You’re different.
You wouldn’t get on with the world.
Depression is why.
Anxiety is why.
Autism is why.
That’s why you cry,
You want to be a part of an art gallery
but you’re just the frame of a painting;
you’re there, to make the painting
look nicer, but the painting is the main
attraction.
What’s wrong with you?
You should be happy!
Depression, that’s why.

The Whispers

whispers entrancing my thoughts,
seducing me into a state of confusion,
my eyes low, the floor my ally,
everyone around the enemy,
if I look up, they will know
that I’m not worth the time of day,
the whispers tell me that
they’re not my friends,
they will never like me,
because I am insane,
I am existence’s bane.
friends talk about how they understand
but they don’t,
only the whispers do,
they know my deepest fears,
my worst insecurities,
and everyone else will pretend
it’s not that bad, that it can go away
if I just tried —
but the whispers know that
it’s not something I can fix.
that’s why they’re who I trust the most,
they might be mean and harsh,
but they accept me for who I am,
with all the bad too.
they don’t silence me for talking bad,
for having a rant, for a meltdown,
for moaning, or just being me,
they’re always here.
they always have time.
Always.

My Dad’s Poem

This poem is by my dad. I’m very proud.

We breathe so we cannot drown.

We love so we cannot spread doom.

We smile to better soften our foe.

We light the room which was so cold.

We pass through this world in a flash

We live for the now but not in a rush.

We are our future we are our past.