the red ribbons round your arms don’t look so pretty

once they pool in your palms and drip to the floor.

you look at me and

your hate distorts my image in tears,

it grates on my lungs with every breath.

it locks me in the mirror with a burning gaze

that traces the scarlet trail up my wrist,

until your diamond-hard eyes meet mine, edges and all,

and if looks could kill -

no,

if looks could mutilate,

if looks strip my bones, split my skull,

if looks could remold flesh and brain,

i might be made into someone you could love.

i’m sorry i could not be enough

on my own.

there’s nothing more powerful than a whisper.

a fragment of a sound

swept from the deep on an updraft that

sends dead leaves scattering with the same hollow rasp of

decaying wood, rusted gates, old bones,

reverberations akin to the cemetery,

reminding you that initiation into

that interminate slumber is imminent.

and wouldn’t it be so easy to succumb,

become the next name on carved granite,

the next mahogany box to be enveloped by earth’s embrace,

the next memory behind teardrops mingling among

morning dew on the trodden-down grass and wilting flowers?

wouldn’t it be so easy to listen to that whisper,

now creeping in tendrils, unfurling

velvety caresses of shadows that settle under

your eyes and drape over your body

in a permanent veil to cast the world in darkness,

a mock shield that sends its own venom seeping into your skin

little by little until it takes root in your flesh,

until your veins become a highway and your heart a home

for the poison that erodes the essence of your being,

and crumbles your resistance into sand.

that whisper, tantalizing whisper,

swells into storm surges that pummel your defiant cliffs

until they are crushed beneath an onslaught of criticism,

spewing words that swarm your mind in a

chaotic buzz of screaming static,

pounding through your bones,

rattling your teeth, your brain within your skull,

and prying apart your willpower splinter by splinter

to wrench your feet ever closer to the precipice,

a ruthless puppeteer jerking at your strings,

pulling only harder as they begin to snap one by one

and the fight in your limbs collapse

into flimsy, inoperative exhaustion.

there’s nothing more powerful than a whisper,

nothing more tempting, more enticing, more compelling

than the clawed hands with a honey-sweet voice one minute

and a vicious shriek the next

beckoning you to the edge.

and there’s nothing more tragic

than when your soul caves in,

and you take that step

to answer the call,

and fall.

--

The title refers to a french phrase meaning "call of the void", aka that moment when you stand somewhere high and your brain tells you jumping off would be pretty fun

#poetry #dark

The last time I ate gluten free chocolate cake was my seventeenth birthday. I laughed as I baked and snapchatted a picture of the crumbly, wheat-less, rather flat looking product to my best friend.

Her name was Sam.

She couldn’t eat gluten and so became the target of the easiest inside joke of our friends. Every box of gluten free cookies, every labeled menu option, instantly found itself the subject of a blurry phone pic showcased in our group chat. She would laugh, roll her eyes, and reply with almond milk directed toward the lactose intolerant unfortunate few.

We had fun that year. Senior year, which despite college applications and AP classes, was also golden and bright and overflowing with love. It was a race against the clock, against graduation, against going off to new lives and inevitably chalking this up to a few old facebook posts and a fond remembrance of laughter.

Far too quickly, it was over. And then we were preparing to split, and she was the first to go, the most permanent as well, moving back to Michigan. And then there were only tearful goodbyes and desperate last hugs and trying to remember her eyes, her smile, her voice, and fingers clasping but slipping away, away, away, gone.

It wasn’t so bad, after the first few days. There was social media, after all, and FaceTime. And soon, we’d all scattered, found ourselves impossibly busy once again, and it wasn’t so bad, but I took it for granted, only wished over and over to talk to her in person.

That winter was cold. Colder for her, though, all the way up north. The ice must have been brutal on the roads, and blacker than the night they were driving in, practically invisible. It was a disaster waiting to happen. And no one’s fault. That’s what they said at least. No one’s fault, no drunk driver, just a cruel trick of fate and no one to blame but the gods. They just kept saying it; no one could have known, could have done much of anything, but that made it worse, not better. I wanted someone to scream at, to hurt, to punish for taking her away from me.

How do you punish a god?

There is no longer a reason for me to get gluten free cake, no reason for me to consider it as an option each year on my birthday, but I’m drawn to it as I walk by, a sharp pain in my chest intensifying with too many painful memories and a longing to be reminded that Sam couldn’t eat gluten at my party, a longing to have that reason to pick up that box with the image of a crumbly, wheat-less, rather flat looking, gluten free chocolate cake.

Our youth is a fleeting immortality,

burning blazing bright and fierce.

Each act is a defiance

against the winding down of the clock,

a fearless declaration against the night.

We are inseparable and invincible.

Arms, legs, fingers, bodies intertwined

in careless affection that runs deeper and stronger

than any river daring to try and carve canyons

between us.

Our youth is how we love and laugh and break so hard

we burst apart into prismacolor fragments

time and again,

and each time become something more beautiful.

Our shattered stained glass bones

litter the path behind us,

but we are stronger for the iron that binds our pieces now -

now, a patchwork of found and gathered and given

and stitched together by helping hands.

Our youth is how we live and laugh and soar

on the wings of a million dreams,

and a hope so unshakeable

it carries us above the highest peaks until

the whole world lies at our feet,

and we barely have to reach to touch the horizon,

letting our fingertips taste the beginning

of life’s next great adventure.

--

A/N: I haven’t posted in a good 2 years but I’m done with high school, so hopefully more time to write! This poem is me being optimistic (for once) about the future and it’s dedicated to everyone who’s helped me out along the way.

#poetry #freeverse

Though the fire of my life

Has long gone out and

Only cold ashes still remain,

Though not even a spark

Has flickered weakly from

Beneath the gray powder in

The bounds of my memory,

Though any heat has

So completely seeped from

My charred remains,

It is doubtful there was

Ever any at all,

You have pierced the shadows

With a glimmer of hope

That I ache for but

Should not grasp at.

The fierce blaze of

Your kindness that forever

Shines through your smile,

The gentle warmth you

So effortlessly radiate

To all that you touch,

The selflessness of your

Heart at the center of

An inferno so different from

The wasteland of my being,

Leads me to wish

That my flames were not lost

In infinite darkness,

That I could burn as bright

As your blazing star,

That your beacon of light

Could rekindle the

Embers of my soul.

--

Inspired by A Tale of Two Cities :)

"Reach out."

You insist,

Pulling your hands away. 

"I'm here for you."

You vow,

Walking out the door. 

"Talk about it."

You urge,

Covering your ears.

"I tried to help,"

You cry,

Standing at my grave,

"I don't know why it didn't work."

Promises should be

Exquisite wonders,

Rare marvels,

Precious bonds,

Special. 

Promises should be

Everlasting pacts,

Eternal vows,

Immortal links,

Indestructible.

Not something

For you to toss away

Like trash

As soon as I hand

It over. 

Not your

Mass-produced,

Meaningless words,

Oh-so-pretty but

Hollow inside.

Not a

Trivial tool

You can use to

Lure me in and then

Cut me open.

Not a

Bomb in a

Pleasant package.

Not a 

Knife in a

Beautiful bouquet.

Not a 

Poison in a 

Delicious dessert.

Not something

For you to

Trick me into

Opening,

Smelling,

Eating,

Only for you to

Tear 

Me 

Apart.

The days drag on 

In all their incessant,

Grueling familiarity.

The same 

Crawling out of bed,

Unwanted conversations,

Repetitive work. 

The world has faded

To a monotone blur

Of predictability.

Even the paints that

Once brought color to my life

Are now but splatters of

Gray. 

I look to the horizon

For a glimmer of change,

But all that greets

My eyes is the 

Unaltered landscape,

Impossibly infinite in 

Every direction.

Endless,

Mindless,

Hopeless,

Dull.

The dust swirls around my legs,

Drawing patterns in the inky darkness,

Lingering in a shroud above my ankles.

The stars shine above it all

In their meaningless beauty,

Watching, yet unwilling to help.

My life has become a loop

Of dragging steps through the night

And tense days crouching in the brush,

Always afraid, always exhausted.

The ache of my stomach,

My muscles, my throat

Are only surpassed by the ache

In my heart for home.

But there is no way to return,

No possibility of reunion.

Only the war at my back,

And the road at my feet.

So I shuffle on toward a

Hopeless future -

The only destination left for me.

Hour after hour,

Mile after mile,

Step after step.

---

A/N: This was inspired by my grandfather's experience leaving home during WWII in China.