I.
In her courtyard
twice a week
for a year
anticipating
rupture
I would
fold
over:
an embryo with three layers -
My messenger bag, concrete-heavy with text books.
A concealed zip lock bag full of razors.
A canopy of fine, blonde hair.
II.
"Do you identify more with being MALE or FEMALE?"
"No"
III.
"Do you ever have thoughts of suicide?"
"Arachnid eyes have devoured my discrete triangle over and over. Tonight I'm digging with all four limbs and my teeth into wet earth to find my other half. I call when I know no one's home just to hear the voice on the answering machine. Yes... Yes. Every single day.
Tonight I'm tearing up the debris in the gutters where he waited. In the desert, there's a chasm, there's an orfice filled with red ink line-drawings of wings and his torn hymen to surround a shrine to self pity.
In his bedroom, in the shower, he births with-teeth stop-completely-traffic-light mouths that cry out in fear.
Frilly, pink flowers grow from infected cuts on his forearms. I called one night to tell him that he's the one I love. No one picked up. Deus ex machina. Addict. I can't get to sleep. I think about your dead fucking body.
At night, I abuse my veins and close my eyes and I imagine myself spinning until I'm unsure of the geographical orientation of my horizontal body.
Dizzy, I bury myself beneath the house in wet earth, and he's always there waiting with teeth to rupture, with eyes to scauld naked, with fingertips thick with mountainous ridges (to invade),with a skeleton barely contained by skin (to fall in love with), with limbs to take cover in, tall as a skyscraper to leap from.
Yes. In such detail"
Author notes
This is old. It's about a very strange time in my life. It is obviously deeply personal, like most of what I write. Enjoy.
A contest entry
- Poetry in Opposition (Round 1) by Progandother.
900 points, ended August 10, 19 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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S.T.U.N.N.I.G
but im out of points so now clappys for now.
I'll be back -
for being old, this is breathtaking. it made me cry.
'Tonight I'm tearing up the debris in the gutters where he waited.'
that's my favorite line. it just reminds me of slums and rats and desperation. this had amazing imagery and powerful, ferocious emotion.
I also love how the first few lines are stretched out. The spacing gives it an amazing, slow, softly-hurting-harshly (oxymoronic?) feel.
the ending is stunning. it packs such a punch and has an amazing sense of finality.
anyway, great job with this, and congrats on the gold. it was very well deserved. :]
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...sorry chainsaw...I'm too curious and I looked in the comment section again (I recognised the title anyhoo) so the anonymity is BROKEN!!
...but I must say I'm surprised I've never read this...for you have exceeded my expectations of anyone in the first round...by a couple billion points...
...let's begin with the structure...amazing due to the disbalance which added a lot of uniformed chaos to it...three sections with the last one being significantly longer than the rest...just the way I love it...
...the context with reading the comments below I assume is the multiple conscious levels of a psychology session with the use of the Ego, Super ego, and the Id (I'm making stuff up probably but I'm going to go with it)
...I'm placing the final section as the Id due to the constant stream of emotional metaphors in an awkward arrangement of paragraphs or some awkward article...
number 2 is the actual conscious with an annoying questioning from the psychologist being pondered from the mind with a closed answer that wasn't an option which creates this awkward confusion to whomevers reading (which is great really)...
...section 1 is the most separated out so I assume it's the...um...ego? I don't know...but it seems to explain the ordeal of going to see the psychologist...
...I think if I went through the metaphorical depth of this piece I would have a heart attack...it has such a large depth that a 100 foot man could swim in it...and it's late...if you truly would like a metaphorical analysis though then please tell me...
...absolutely brilliant...I could never pull something off like this...very very very well done and good luck in the contest...
Oliver
P.S I would have said this whether I knew who you were or not...so people reading this and thinking I'm biased should read the poem and see if anything I've said seems biased...
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Thank you for that incredibly detailed comment. I'm very glad you enjoyed reading this.
It's okay, I know how it is judging contests and trying to preserve anonimity, it can be difficult, even with anonomized comments.
I didn't nessecarily intend the layers to be ego, super ego and id when I was writing, but they were intended to go deeper and deeper psychologically, so that was really quite an impressive interpretation.
I know that I tend to cram a whole lot of metaphors into my pieces, so while I am always interested in other people's interpretations of them and always like to know if my intended meaning is coming across, I do understand if you do not have the time/energy to put into such an analysis.
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This is beautiful... I tried to pick a favourite line and, well, it was too difficult. If I absolutely had to choose, though, it would be this part here:
"Frilly, pink flowers grow from infected cuts on his forearms. I called one night to tell him that he's the one I love. No one picked up. Deus ex machina. Addict. I can't get to sleep. I think about your dead fucking body."
Holy shit. Where did this monster of a muse come from, lady? I wasn't this good at 18; hell, I'm not this good now, either. Your voice, your imagery and tone, your command of the language and the subject-matter itself all contributed to how perfect this was. I can only one day hope to be half the writer you are.
As with all poems (or proses) about self-injury, it breaks my heart. My boyfriend is an ex-cutter, as are many close friends, and I feel deeply for anyone whose pain is so great that a physical embodiment of his or her suffering is the only voice s/he has left to speak. While I can't relate myself, my heart goes out to you, darlin.
'
Bravissima.
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Thank you, I'm very flattered, although I just turned 19. I'm glad you enjoyed it.
As for where it came from, it was written about the time I was seeing a psychologist when I was younger. It's largely about how she brought up things within me that I didn't entirely understand and wasn't ready to deal with at the time, and how I'd be so closed off and blunt with her until she'd suddenly hit a nerve and everything would come spilling out.
I hope that helps you make some sense of it
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I'm actually going back to school to become a therapist; so yes, it makes perfect sense. I had an amazing one when I was a kid too.
There are always repressions that we don't want to acknowledge, for the simple fact that they are too unpleasant to think of. Anyway, I really enjoyed your poem and look forward to reading more.
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Yeah, I'm actually at university now in my second semester of psychology I'm passionate about it.
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"Arachnid eyes have devoured my discrete triangle over and over. Tonight I'm digging with all four limbs and my teeth into wet earth to find my other half. I call when I know no one's home just to hear the voice on the answering machine. Yes... Yes. Every single day.
I love this poem. you're very talented. and you're one of the few on here that I enjoy reading.
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Phantastic. Tearing.
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