[x]

interstate 81.there's a metal star that is wasting away on a hill overlooking interstate 81. it blends in with the surrounding area; you can't really even see it unless you know it's there.
and no one does.
i like to think that it is a signboard from god, and i make tiny little prayers on it. my religion is in curling wires and burned out light bulbs, and my lord is the same colour as the sky and the treetops. honestly, i believe that rusting metal has as much a chance as anything for inspiring faith.

there's a deer lying broken on the side of the road. it's sprawled in a shallow ditch with its four legs splayed awkwardly, hooves plowing tiny furrows in

being in love.it's like when you were five, when your pet rabbit died
and you learned that nothing good lasts.

it's like the time you dropped him off at his house to watch tv
before you drove yourself to the emergency room, sobbing.

it's like the first time you saw your kindergarten teacher cry.

it's like ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes. ashes.

it's like when he went too far, and he said, "is this okay?"
and you said, "no," but it didn't matter.

it's like when he said, "but i want you."

it's like the number seven, or rubies.

it's like when you almost drowned in the pool in north carolina
and when you looked up through the

trilobite.look:
don't ask me to prove to you that evolution is real,
because i lost the notebook with the proof written
out in pen. i could try to sum it up for you anyway,
about how i didn't used to love you and then one day
i did and how whales used to have legs.

also i was once a flower or a seven year old
and my hands didn't know how to hold yours
or how to draw sunsets and make sandcastles.

evolution was you one year ago saying i was perfect,
that i should never change myself for anyone.
now you say that you are trying to fix me,
which means that perfect things could always
be trying harder. and that's evolution.

i'm tired of my hair

amor de lejos.you used to blow into my ear while i was
trying to fall asleep.

i'd laugh and pull off both of our shirts, kiss
you chest and ears and eyelids until neither
of us could breathe. afterwards you'd sleepily
call me your little snuggle puppy, curve your
body around mine, and just when you'd close
your eyes i'd laugh and blow into your ear.

we never used to have any change because
we'd go downtown and feed the parking meters
by hand, like they were curious metal monsters.
you could never resist helplessness, which is
probably why you love me.

i used to make up songs about your socks.
i used to rub your back in front of your pare

kitestrings.you confessed that when you were little you would pull apart monarch butterflies because they were much too beautiful--
so beautiful that they made you feel uneasy.

(you always did call me the most beautiful thing you'd ever known.)

it's almost december now, and the only reason i wish you were here is so you could make snow angels and i could rip off their wings.

---

you wanted a kite for your birthday, so i got you one that was shaped like a bat and we took it to the beach, watched it crash into the surf over and over until it was bent and broken. i rescued it from the tide and surfaced dripping saltwater -- you told me i looked like t

glittering, struggling.i.

"i am going to make every person
around me as happy as i can,"
i bravely declare.

"you should get a job," you offer,
and i draw a heart on a whiskey
bottle and say that making people
happy is my new job.

"you should get a paying job,"
you clarify, and i fill the whiskey
bottle with glitter and kiss you
until it doesn't matter anymore.

you don't need money if you're
dead.

iii.

i tell you that i'm going to leave
because even if it hurts now, it will
eventually make you happy, and
you refuse to speak to me for
the rest of the night.

and here i thought i had
all of the answers.

v.

you joke about going to med scho

serbian mermaid.in five years i want to move to georgia
or serbia or atlantis and start a family,
name my children after odd numbers
and teach them russian lullabies and
the art of manipulating those you love.

in five years i want to marry you, but
i don't know if you like odd numbers,
or even if you like me all that much.
maybe you'd like me if i tell you
that i'm a mermaid, but i'm not
and you can always tell when i am lying.

in five years i want to be seventeen,
but wishes don't work like that.
i tried.

in five years i want to be on a plane
and i want the plane to crash
into the ocean and i want everyone
to be okay except me, but if i w

telling a sad story backwards-17.

it smells like grief and sterilized metal.

i climb into andrew’s bed, though the nurses have strictly forbidden it. he closes his eyes and holds me tightly, because he says when he can’t see me, it is easier to pretend i never happened to him.

15.

he pushes the cart aggressively down the aisle, pretending to mow over old ladies doing their sunday shopping.

"stop," i say giggling, lobbing a can of ravioli at him.

for a moment i think he simply didn't see me throw the can; it glances off his chest and falls to the floor, exploding in a pattern of red arrows. i don't notice his eyes rolling back in his head or the graceful wa

a poem for terrible people.i want to write a poem about primroses
and how i am not a terrible person.

-

i am disordered but not disorderly. i am broken up.
i think nice thoughts like "streetlight" and "linens,"
and is there an instruction guide on happiness?
i could write one for you.

step one, paint your eyes cobalt blue.
step two, hang fireworks from coat hangers.
step three, turn into a dandelion. blow away.

my heart tries to escape from my throat. okay,
i am guilty in ways that you cannot tell anyone,
ever, not even imaginary best friends. or real ones.
or myself. freud says i am an iceberg, but i don't
know if he means i am full of repressed though

stop ruining autumn.listen:

fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider.
but i liked the idea of it.

listen:

two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves, who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.

and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."

listen:

on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape.
lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged

dahlia girl.i used to let you backhand me across
the face because crying turned you on.

your palm stung and burned my cheeks
bright red, but it was strangely beautiful.
you called me your little dahlia, your little
candleflame, and kissed my jaw where
your fingers left treadmarks.

you said:
"love means making sacrifices."

i said nothing, just wiped away a few
premature tears and traced the fireworks
blooming on my face.

you used to fall asleep in the grass with
me, and we'd wake up with petals stuck
in our eyebrows and grass stains on our
lips. our lazy kisses tasted like rain.

i say:
"love means throwing handfuls of grass at
each ot

sticks and stones.broken people like to write poems about how they are broken.
they like to turn people into words because no one's heart
has ever been punctured by parentheses, but by god it's not
for lack of trying. in a poem, broken people can have hangnails
and they never have to brush their hair because the tangles
symbolize the time they lost their virginity and there are no mirrors
unless they write about one and force themselves to look into it.

-

broken people also like to use cliche metaphors
but that is okay because when you are broken
sometimes cliche metaphors are all you have left.

"i am a rose and you think i'm beautiful so you

cardinals and brown hair.aaron, i want to tell you about the
red-haired boy i saw standing in the rain.

while the other students ran to class, he
paused and stared into the trees and i
paused and stared at him and we might
have smiled.

i want to tell you about the cardinal that
we were pausing for, and how the red of
its wingtip matched the colour of my scarf--

but i know if i pick up the phone and tell you
about my cardinal and my red-haired boy and
my rain, you will sigh and reminisce and tell
me that "isn't that nice," and "yes, it's raining
here too," and, "i always was attracted to
redheads."

and you always were attracted to blondes.
and blue eye

Fourth of September.1.

I am writing a poem about my birthday and candles and alcohol and dead people.
And how I have a really good imagination and every time I walk by that stop sign I see the car slamming into her and spreading her across the asphalt and every time the lights flicker I imagine his brain swelling against the confines of his skull and every time I walk in the front door I am reminded that my baby brother is dead.

And balloons.
I am writing a poem about balloons and dead people.

2.

It is the fourth of September and I am full of longing. I want bare knees and raw elbows, untied shoes, green grass that bites into the tender palms of my hands.

compulsive liar.once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.

-

sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.

i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.

"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.

"why not?" i reply.

-

i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someon

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throwing rocks.so i want to grow up and get a job and make happy, make money, make forget. i can't though, i'm too concerned with windchimes. i mean, fuck windchimes, right? i lie awake at night and listen to rigs on the rumble strip and the windchimes, (mostly the trucks), but damn, the tinkling is enough to keep me awake all night. but sometimes not, and then i dream i drown or maybe i marry a serial killer who props up corpses in rocking chairs or sometimes i dream about my ex-boyfriend's little sister because why not. then i wake up and it's taxes and credit cards and grades and people dying and shit.

and windchimes.

i don't know what is wrong with me

thirteen ways of looking at--one crow sorrow
two crows joy
three crows a wedding
four crows a boy
five crows silver
six crows gold
seven crows a secret
that has never been told.

---

i suppose my secret is that i never told him that he is a blackbird.

he is all sleep-crooked eyelashes, dark and glossy, and his wingspan
is over seven feet long which seems big enough to pull down the sky.
i could tell him about birds as cliche symbols but his mouth is forceful,
his body is warm and needy and there is no room for literature in bed.
my hands flutter needlessly against his shoulders and i hope
i am a bird of paradise but in truth i am no bird at all.
i gue

Fourth of September.1.

I am writing a poem about my birthday and candles and alcohol and dead people.
And how I have a really good imagination and every time I walk by that stop sign I see the car slamming into her and spreading her across the asphalt and every time the lights flicker I imagine his brain swelling against the confines of his skull and every time I walk in the front door I am reminded that my baby brother is dead.

And balloons.
I am writing a poem about balloons and dead people.

2.

It is the fourth of September and I am full of longing. I want bare knees and raw elbows, untied shoes, green grass that bites into the tender palms of my hands.

sticks and stones.broken people like to write poems about how they are broken.
they like to turn people into words because no one's heart
has ever been punctured by parentheses, but by god it's not
for lack of trying. in a poem, broken people can have hangnails
and they never have to brush their hair because the tangles
symbolize the time they lost their virginity and there are no mirrors
unless they write about one and force themselves to look into it.

-

broken people also like to use cliche metaphors
but that is okay because when you are broken
sometimes cliche metaphors are all you have left.

"i am a rose and you think i'm beautiful so you

a poem for terrible people.i want to write a poem about primroses
and how i am not a terrible person.

-

i am disordered but not disorderly. i am broken up.
i think nice thoughts like "streetlight" and "linens,"
and is there an instruction guide on happiness?
i could write one for you.

step one, paint your eyes cobalt blue.
step two, hang fireworks from coat hangers.
step three, turn into a dandelion. blow away.

my heart tries to escape from my throat. okay,
i am guilty in ways that you cannot tell anyone,
ever, not even imaginary best friends. or real ones.
or myself. freud says i am an iceberg, but i don't
know if he means i am full of repressed though

serbian mermaid.in five years i want to move to georgia
or serbia or atlantis and start a family,
name my children after odd numbers
and teach them russian lullabies and
the art of manipulating those you love.

in five years i want to marry you, but
i don't know if you like odd numbers,
or even if you like me all that much.
maybe you'd like me if i tell you
that i'm a mermaid, but i'm not
and you can always tell when i am lying.

in five years i want to be seventeen,
but wishes don't work like that.
i tried.

in five years i want to be on a plane
and i want the plane to crash
into the ocean and i want everyone
to be okay except me, but if i w

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paper cranes and picket fences

by ~estallidos, Nov 6, 2009, 8:31:51 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

i am folding you one thousand paper cranes because it is all we have left.

legend says that if i fold one thousand paper cranes, i will get a wish. i could wish for a pair of iridescent wings or an ocean in a teacup or just to finally be happy again, but i don't want any of that--with every crane i fold i am imagining you. one crane for the circles under your eyes, one crane for your jutting ribs, one crane for every seizure.

i love you and you're dying and i will run out of paper trying to fold your broken pieces into birds.

-

you drew me a picture of us in the future.
our houses were next door to each other and a white picket fence separated our property and oh god, it made me curl into a ball and ache for hours. see, in a perfect world, the clouds would always be fluffy and our mailboxes would always be full of hand-drawn pictures and our smiles would be lopsided but permanent.

i hung it on my refrigerator as a reminder that there is still hope, but paper is so fragile and i am afraid that someday it might be nothing more than smears.

-

we both want to name our sons isaac and neither of us paint our fingernails. we have the same middle name and we finish each other's sentences.
sometimes people tell us that we are the same person: the only difference is that you're terminally ill and i'm just terminally guilty.

-

one night i asked my boyfriend what would happen, and he let me toss fitfully on the too-small bed and cry all over his collar.

"we'll go to her funeral," he told me. "and we will cry. and whenever we are all together, we will think about her and how much we love her and we will smile. it will be okay."

so i will keep telling you that until one of us believes it. it will be okay, it will. it has to.
(it might not be, but i cannot imagine you gone. i want a white picket fence and graphite clouds and strings of origami veiling every window in your house).

-

in the end neither paper cranes nor poetry will keep you alive, but i have to try.
i have to try.

paper cranes and picket fencesby ~estallidos

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

"'cause the only thing worse than having cancer is being ostracized BECAUSE you have cancer."

-sw.

i will never let you feel alone again.

~~joy 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

Mood: Unhappy

~FlyingFirework Jan 20, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I've been reading this over and over and over again. The more I read it, the more I want to bawl my eyes out.

Reply

~BlondePickleMule Nov 20, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

This is so beautiful, and painful. Your sadness is apparent in ever word, and it's so pure and powerful.

Reply

~the-Mad-Hatress Jul 28, 2012 Student General Artist

Reply

~Ivytear May 26, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

i could never imagine my freind leaving let alone this you are strong and tell your freind that she has someone whos praying for her

Reply

~WinterMora Jan 27, 2012 Student General Artist

It made me cry, I understand this. A little two well...

Reply

~TheTornWeaver Nov 27, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

This. Is. Amazing.
I wish I could express my appreciation in words...

Reply

~rhiannon1117 Sep 26, 2011

beautiful

Reply

*losttherace Sep 23, 2010 Hobbyist Photographer

Simply pure and overwhelmingly beautiful.

Reply

~TheYellowBalloon Sep 21, 2010

This is wonderful

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Mood: Emotional

~britiansrhott Sep 16, 2010

Gorgeous. Your pain seeps through each word and it is painfully fantastic.

Reply