somebody_else's blog

"Why did you put all of my doilies on the mantelpiece?"

"So the cats can't get to them!"

"I don't have any cats."

"There could still be cats in the house."

---

"Paper cuts are a serious business."

---

"Maybe we should just stop doing work and watch cat videos."

---

"I love babies who laugh maniacally."

---

"There's this video of this guy with a British accent singing pop songs on a banjolele"

---

"No one asked me if they could change hip-hop."

---

...I am concerned. I am deeply concerned about my school. These are direct quotes from unnamed sources. 

What? 

Recalled to life--

Lorry dreams--

"I hope you care to live?

"I can't say." ()

Why would I long for life?

The living man condemned me to death,

buried alive, 

                        Death-in-Life,

           An ancient Mariner drawn off his ship.

Recalled to life--

tapping,

                tapping,

       hammer on leather, 

                  shoes forming under ancient hands,

perched on a stool; lost to the world

              still dead 
                     still living

Waiting, 

                 waiting,

        found by his daugter, 

                                 lost in his love.

Recalled to life--

Cruncher's rusted hands,

      clutching his rusted shovel,

              digging into the

                                           earth, Read more »

An arythmic tapping of blood-red nails on a carnelian purse blends into the clack of maroon patent-leather pumps on hardwood floors, bobbed hair whispering secrets into this Medusa's ear. A cool, delicate sneer froms on her porceline face, white teeth flashing under pomegranite lips. AShe surveys the room, no emotion visible under her mask of amused derision. She pauses briefly at a framed mirror, examines again the pale face and dark hair. "Mirror, mirror," she murmurs,a smirk twisting one corner of ther lips. Her brilliant crimson dress hugs her waist, shoulders, a plunging neckline an invitation to the colorblind. Warning colors--danger. Stop. Keep away. She turns away, walking briskly into the tiled hallway. Her eyes dart from door to door, seeking the number she knows will be locked. No matter. She has her key--of sorts. She stops at 257--the door is barred, chained, with its own warning scrawled in blue and orange. She moves through, melting through chains and bars. They fall as she passes, clattering to the floor. Her facade falls as she enters, eyes stretching wider and reddening to crimson, skin tightening until her bones stand out sharply; iron skeleton under paper, stark shadows forming against her pallor. She grins, revealing glistening, white teeth--sharklike and serrated. She nods to a creature in the corner. She knows it, that being, with its green tinge and long limbs--too long, sinews standing out as it moves. It shifts forward, moving towards her with a jerky, crablike gait. She waits. It will speak first Read more »

you love me most when I am 

drunk with poetry, words

singing through my veins and slipping through my

teeth with all the grace of falling

stars;

they crumble to dust as you touch them.

you can see them coursing through my bloodstream,

burning my arteries and singing through my 

veins--I

weep with the power in these words,

I feel them coursing through my blood,

vermillion letters shimmering through my

mind; ash through my fingers,

and I try to clutch them but they fade before meaning

forms.

you love me most when I stand in the 

shadow of the treetops, and you can see the stars tangled in my 

hair, moonlight trapped in the curve of my

spine, breezes flowing through my 

fingertips,

and you can feel the fire behind my eyes,

scorching,

burning away the truth they shoved down your

throat, because 

darling, lies are beautiful and

darling, we were never young enough to believe them,

they were dust under our bare feet,

running,

running,

sprinting through fire, and

ashes in our mouths, and 

darling, those ashes never saved your

soul, so why should

I?

You love me most in the moments between love and

loss, the half-truths shining between your teeth,

the moments when the stars slow their

circles because darling,

we never needed to hear the harpstrings of a universe Read more »

You love me most when I am high on poetry,

words coursing through my veins and

falling through my teeth like diamonds,

melting to dust when you touch them.  

You love me most when I am standing

in the doorway of a gazebo with the stars 

caught in my hair, holding the moon in my hand

with a half-smile and your leather jacket

reflecting the fire that lights your eyes.

You love me most when you can see the

spirit in my eyes struggling to wind the

clockwork of the stars, shift the tuning pegs to

slow their heavenly rotation to give me another

moment, another

breath, another

kiss, another

flutter of your eyelashes against my cheeks.

Shh--you're home, my love.

This place means safety.

Here, you have no pain,
                                            no pain.

You feel only the smooth bark under your fingertips, 

the wind through the leaves.

Shh--you're home, my love.

You hear no human voices here--

only the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind,

blood rushing in your ears,

the scrape of rubber soles on bark.

Shh--you're home, my love.

Let the golden warmth of the sun guide you--

the green light through the leaves mapping out your path, 

cracks in the bark leading you upward and onward.

Shh--you're home, my love.

Each birdcall, each scrape of boot, reminds you.

Climb higher, my love, this place means safety.

Feel the dizzying rush of height, 

the tree swaying around you.

Remember when life was simple--

think only of the next branch, the next step.

Let yourself grow silent, my love--

let your mind melt into the tree,

feel its connection to sun and earth and sky,

feel the roots interlocking with the world,

the fluttering leaves.

Focus on the harsh breeze, my love--

a cleansing, washing away soil and pain.

This place means you are safe, my love.

Shh--you're home. 

Welcome.

This world is beautiful, no?

The vibrant colours do trap the eye, don’t they?

My apologies. Allow me to introduce myself. Read more »

I told him my deepest secrets.

I told him why I hurt myself--

why I've hurt others.

And for some unknown reason,

for some godly, glorious reason,

he still loves me. 

Because my lovie is sick and in need of cheering. If you do not like sappy litte love letters, my apologies. I felt like putting it out there.

Dearling,

Just to say I miss you (yes, I know I saw you three days ago, but I thought I would and didn't today and this saddens me). I missed having a hug before class, because God knows I need one on Monday morning, and I missed you being the first thing I saw once I was completely awake. Honestly, I even missed you sneaking up on me and tickling (which is endearing, if irritating).

Anyway. I know the flu's taking it out of you, but do me a favor? Tell the flu to f*** off because dammit, I want you back at school with me.

I love you, mi amorado.

Yours,

Angel

She hung up quietly. No sense in further disturbing the peace of the house. This was the reason she loved living alone--there was something almost tangible in the silence; it was darker than most silences. She'd always liked the quiet--there was something ugly in a brand-new house with no voices, and surrounding herself with ugliness had become habit. It wasn't that she wanted to feel superior--quite the reverse, really. She'd been born beautiful, this one, with sparkling eyes and clear skin. She hated it, really. Her personality, she thought idly, was that of a woman who'd given up hope of a meaningful life. One should have a personality that matches one's face. Hers had always been babyish, all soft curves and round cheeks. She wishes she had sharp angles; starving herself came easy. She wants to be horrific, to be as skeletal and fragile as her heart (she loves the dramatics).

She dies quietly. A deliberate sort of quiet. She wouldn't want anyone to notice for a little while--she always wanted to be the woman no one noticed, but whose death shook everyone. Suicide, she thinks, is ugly, but she's painted herself picture-perfect in black and white, and red is the ugliest colour she knows. She always wanted to be stained in it.

Stinging pain.

I can't comprehend the meaning of the word calm;

jittery legs and

sharp fingernails digging into skin.

I don't mean to hurt you,

it's habit-forming,

I'm sorry,

I'll stop--

all of the lies I've told you before

(you wish you could believe them, but you know I've lied).

Pain is just a message, but

it plays between my neurons on

repeat

repeat

repeat

and I can't ignore it

(the same way you can't ignore my

transparent imperfections; you wish you didn't have to

see me).

I didn't mean to fall in love with you,

you know this. You were never the one I was supposed to

be with (you always were),

I am not supposed to be "the one" for you.

You know I can't stand you (can't stand how well you know me).

I loved you before I knew you;

you existed before I could percieve you

(take that, Schrodinger).

How can you know me so well and still stay

human?

(I am not).

Dear you,

Wake up. Stop dreaming.

You know, this letter wasn't meant to be a love letter.

This isn't real.

I was not trying to write to you. I was not trying to write about you.

Open your eyes.

I just want to ask you something. I hope you don't mind the intrusion.

Listen to me. Listen!

Who are you, really?

Can't you hear me?

Don't you ever wonder how long it would take to count the stars in your eyes?

Oh god, please, please, hear me.

If every shade of white in the reflection of the sun on your skin shifted to black, would you be frightened?

Wake up!

Where were you when you were dying?

Who are you?

What happens behind the closed door?

razor blades tap water drops of blood on the floor

Do you know who you are, truly?

Help me.

I didn't think so.

"I can help you, darling. You don't have live alone anymore."

"You don't understand."

"Don't understand what? Loss? Sorrow? Pain?"

"Not this kind of pain. You don't know me. You don't know what I've done."

"I know what you're planning to do, and I am begging you--don't do this."

"Then stop me."

"You want me to."

"Was that supposed to be a question?"

"No. You want to be stopped; you don't want to go through with this. Please, darling, please, don't."

"Hang up the phone and walk away."

"You know I can't and won't."

"I don't want you to hear me hang up."

"I can't lose you now--I love you, you damn fool, don't you understand?"

"Please, walk away."

"I can't. Don't leave me--I will do anything, anything, just don't--"

"I love you, too. Goodbye."

he met her when they were six.

it's raining, but she doesn't care if her hair is plastered to her head.

he lookes at her--a bright, gap-tooth grin and pink cheeks,

and tells her that he is going to marry her, because she's

beautiful, like a princess.

they kiss behind a tree (childish pecks, but they believe

love is there).

she announces proudly that her birthday party is next week--

can he come?

husbands, he replies, puffing his chest out importantly,

go to their wives parties.

he must get her the perfect present, he tells his mother.

she smiles gently, takes him to the store.

he sees it when he's just about to give up hope--

an umbrella, dandelion yellow, with a curved handle.

he seizes it immediately

(she adores it).

they're twelve when they grow apart.

he plays soccer,

she sings, dances

(they told him the musical was for girls;

he misses her).

she keeps the umbrella (yellow is still her favorite)

they tell her he's too good for her

(no athlete would date such a nerdy girl;

she misses him).

they're sixteen when her mother's diagnosed.

she's called to the office; her dad comes to tell her

(she opts to stay at school; she has to pretend life is normal).

she's lost when she sees him walk by;

she runs into his arms

(she needs him in that moment).

  Read more »

Seven sons and seven daughters have I,

O people of my noble city, see,

how far my name shall go on should I die,

O noble citizens, come to worship me.

Apollo's mother, adult'ress, wand'ring, listless,

no land would take her in to bear her child.

While yet I in birth was surrounded by all riches,

perfume and sweetest wine, all honey-mild.

And seven sons and seven maids I bear you,

while she has only twins; the archer pair,

though neither rivals my sweet darlings, mark you,

for beauty and for bodies lithe and fair.

What goddess, she, who bears a man one daughter,

who knows the duties not of women soft,

and one son only to uphold his father,

to give his time to honour Zeus' name.

So grant me all thy worship, honored brothers,

give unto me the sacrifice once hers,

for I have lived as long as any others,

and gods' immortal favor shall be ours,

for Zeus shall see my greatness and our beauty,

and grant me my immortal dues of birth,

my father, Tantalus, above all others honoured,

and I his blood-born kin shall keep his worth."

As Niobe spoke, the Archers heard her callings,

and furious inflam'd sped towards the mortal's hearth

and as she stood and gazed upon her darlings,

they fired their silver arrows through their hearts.

Niobe fell upon her knees, face paling

at loss of children so dear to her breast,

and left her husband's city, still bewailing

her childrens' dying for her brash requests.

She knelt upon the grass, her tears still falling, Read more »

Response to flaming tears' "Singing"--go look it up!

-------------------------------

You told me to sing, but I lost my

voice, so I guess I'll just spatter my

brains against my cell wall and call it

poetry.

You're telling her you're sorry, you're sorry, but you can't help it if your feelings changed, and yes, perhaps you should have told her sooner, but you can't change the past.

She's crying, you see with discomfort. Maybe you shouldn't have kissed that other girl, but really, she's overreacting.

It isn't your fault, after all. You weren't aware that she cared so much--maybe if she'd showed you that she did, you wouldn't have stopped liking her.

She seems more resigned now, wiping her eyes and turning to leave.

You're relieved, really, until she turns back.

You hear a smack, and pain suddenly registers on your left cheek.

She slapped you. You can't understand why. It wasn't your fault, right?

He's telling you he's sorry, you notice dimly.

The asshole thinks he can just give you a few hollow words and suddenly you'll be fine and dandy.

You ignore him--really, you tell yourself, he isn't worth your time.

Tears well up in your eyes anyway.

You wipe them away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he hurt you, that you cared for him.

You turn to leave--he doesn't care, why should you?

Hell.

He deserves it. Read more »

and she's lying on the grass feeling her skin's degeneration[such sweet incineration]waiting for inspiration, hearing that faint clicking[clock ticking]time-fingers flicking at harpstrings[heartstrings?]--she's never been one for waiting, but this day's ripe for the taking, and maybe this lazy sweetness[misunderstood completeness], undetermined sense of everything filling her mind[delicately unrefined], and this understanding's undermined her perusal of the undefined[eighth colour at the end of the spectrum; she's never felt so alive]

and she's been searching for an answer to her eternal discontent but somehow with impure intent[the universe, she thinks, is meant to be pulled apart at the seams]and she won't hesitate to chase her dreams, though she's always seen it means crushing a few others under her heel[without regret, she doesn't feel such trivialities as heartbreak {she wishes she could wake from this hell, but she's stucks so she may as well belong}], and her soul has never been complete[cracked and chipped, some piece slipped out of place{cracks in a jigsaw can't be erased}but she's never felt so alive]

The wind has changed--

no longer my lover, it has become

estranged, twisting into my

hair and eyes and leaving me

tangled inside, lost and confused

(littleblacklambinalargelargeworld).

Little black lamb with nowhere to

hide and tendrils of air whipping around my

knees trying to bring me down,

slicing through the thin

(toothintoothintoofragile)

coat I wear and leaving me shivering

(lostagainfrozenagainhelpmeMommy).

and i wish i had kissed you in the thunderstorm,

if only to prove that the elements are no match for us

[the wind was trying to pull us apart,

rain attempting to create a barrier between us,

thunder doing its utmost to frighten us into believing in fate

{we are not fated to be}]

numbness is easier than pain.
no more struggling necessary,
just letting an icy indifference creep into my
mind and chill my
heart to stone and snow.
inhuman, perhaps, but now  can speak without
screaming.
there's no need to scream now.
no need to feel, to think, to be,
i am no longer wanted here,
the winter speaks for me,
isolating me in the snowy fields of buried emotion,
never allowed to grow into poetry

Have you ever perched on a brick wall waiting for the sky to fall on the world and wondered if it's all a little less real than it feels, because really, who can see the world as we know it from the perspective of a god?

I have been waiting for someone's fresh perspective to resurrect the perfection of the delicate inflections of your vowels; your vocal chords have always been more musically inclined than mine (I was never meant to sing), and you were created to soar, wings beating, presence fleeting, waiting for a sign (you, my dear, were always mine).

Do you ever wish for the sun to expand just for the sake of seeing the land you've grown up on consumed by a flame (leaving the world a maze, hearts ablaze) seeing love vanish through the seas of fire, of lust and desire and passion and your eyes are mired in the quiet beauty of ash.

You were never a creature of earth, truly, your birth was of the air, darkness twisting through your eyes and hair and your skin the pallor of despair. You were always one for breaking the laws, defying the gods, determinedly beating the odds, because what else could you do, with the night caught in your voice and the moon where the sun should have kissed your skin?

(I have never quite understood.)

Remember the story called "To Be Continued" that I never really continued? I'm not exactly continuing, but I'm using summer gal's character outline for Meg.

Name: Meghan (Meg) [Last name TBD]

Age: 17

Gender: Female

Race/Species: Human

Hair Color: Reddish brown--streaky

Skin tone: Super pale, but freckly

Height: 5'7"

Weight: 120 lbs

Shoe size: Somewhere around 8/8-1/2

Favorite Outfit: Cargo pants, tank top (greasy, but comfortable), leather tool vest, combat boots

Personal Matters

Family: Lives with her family on a large airship--they're a traveling show. Her entire family--mother, father, brother, and a bunch of cousins--lives there.

Background: Meg was born into the family's life; she's always played the female-in-distress role. Her dad used to let her play with gears/small machines when she was younger, but she isn't allowed now.

Where does this character live: The aforementioned large balloon. She's never had a pernanent land-home.

Digging deeper

What is in this characters pockets/bag/other: A small lockpicking kit, a little bit of money, a long piece of string, a safety pin, a pen and small notebook, probably a small book, and several wrenches of various sizes (for fixing things and hitting people). Read more »

I cannot comprehend your openness towards the world.

Your heart is an open book--names and faces drawn in the margins,

gold ink spiraling across the pages so that the original text gleams.

I do not understand how you can let so many leave their marks in the pages,

how you let others fill the plot holes in your life without losing control of it.

Would that I had your strength.

I cannot comfort you, brother, because your grief is not mine.
I feel pain because you do, but your pain and mine are opposites,
though equals.

My grief lies in velvet blues and inky blacks;
a mantle surrounding and suffocating me;
a darkness that I cannot hide from, cannot escape,
because I see only it when I close my eyes.

Your pain is in vibrant blood reds and blinding whites;
fire searing away your heart that you cannot douse
(your tears only fuel the flames),
cannot fight off.

Forgive me, brother,
my sorrows engulf me,
drown me,
and I cannot move while yours

burn.

I have not lately asked your opinion on the irrelevant but

ever-present questions floating through my mind

[if you cut your finger and blood drips onto a leaf of a tree,

would the tree become a part of you?];

somehow, it seems rude to ask if there is a demon in your clockwork

mind to keep the springs wound tight enough for you to continue

functioning.

Paradoxes are drifting in and out of my head

[if I went back in time and told you I would fall in love with you,

would I still fall?], but I keep my mouth closed and the walls around my brain

firmly in place, because the delicate strands of spider

silk connecting me to myself would break at your gentle

touch; they cannot produce the melodies you coax from my

heartstrings.

Apropo of nothing, I love you.

Your nervous stutter is telling me that you have something to say

[yes, I know, I cut you off, yes, I know, I sort of sprung this on you]

but I would appreciate it if you could let yourself say it.

I know, love, it sounds cruel, but you must admit

[yes, I know, it's my own fault, yes, I know, you're trying]

your grasp of the English language apparently needs some work.

No, love, I'm not as cynical as I sound, but I know that you're trying to say

[yes, I can read you that well; why does this still surprise you?]

that you love me too, so love, for the sake of your sanity,

spit it out.

So, to clarify: I am going to submit this, I think, to the Write Action contest. Any feedback and editing stuff would be absolutely fantastic. Thanks, y'all!

Also, this is a combination of "because you are/not" and "& i am".

& i am trying to capture that

in/de/fin/a/ble

rhythm that surrounds your

airspace in words, but iambic

pentameter is somehow too

rigid because you, my dear,

are not

half-right

friday-night

hookups and you haven't got that

maybe-never

heartstring-severing glance,

& i am searching for the words to describe the

cool-blue-

forest-green-

neither-here-nor-

there colour of your sea-

glass eyes, but somehow i can't

decide how to explain

infinity wrapped around

black, and

i can see the half-rhymes

floating behind your

retinas and i can't help but

wonder if i look like poetry to

you

& i am still waiting for the

song that tells you that i

love you, but the notes are always just a

breath out of reach and my lungs are

opening into my

gut and i can't hold the

air anymore, because you are not

flame or

fire or

blame or

desire; you are just that

one person who will always be

here.

So, if people like this, I may continue it. Thoughts?

  She sighed quietly. It was the sort of day that called for a breathy sigh.  Light grey clouds hovered reluctantly, as if quite wishing that they were storm clouds.  She wondered in the back of her mind if the clouds were ever tired of being clouds.  It seemed to her that these mild, misty confections must wish to be something else--they never seemed to want to commit to anything. The forefront of her mind was preoccupied by the idea of onomonopoea. There ought to be a word, she thought, for that soft whisper of air that passes through the hair next to one's ear. Not quite a shushing noise.  More... expectant.  The sort of noise one might hear if one's thinking was about to be interrupted by--

Squeak!

"Come on, Megs, I can't have scared you that badly," my brother grinned, jostling me out of my third-person thoughts. I smiled wryly.

"When you sneak up on me and grab me when I'm trying to have a good think, I squeak," I told him patiently, as if speaking to a two-year-old.

"Which is exactly why I do it, of course."

"Naturally.  What's going on?" I asked, shaking off the irritation accompanying the loss of a lovely internal monologue.

"Mum wants you back inside," Ryan replied. "She said, and I quote, that you'd 'better hoof it back in here before I have to have a banshee fit.'" Read more »

I caught myself today holding a broken-off hairclip.

I found myself staring down at a reddened

wrist and wondering why the hell I keep

doing this to myself.

I rubbed the back of my neck and

winced because the skin was scratched red.

I thought it was finished.

I thought that I could stop

wearing long sleeves perpetually, stop

wearing my hair down, stop

praying that you wouldn't notice the way I

flinched when anything touched me.

I caught myself today leaving raised marks on the

inside of my left

wrist.

I didn't even realize it.

It became such a habit--sit, read, scratch

sit, read, scratch

that now, if I happen to be

sitting on the floor at the foot of my

bed, my fingers instinctively find that broken-

off hairclip,

my right hand abuses,

as if disconnected from my brain,

the inside of that left wrist

[really mine? I can't feel the pain until

after],

the back of my neck,

and now I'm back to the long

sleeves and loose

hair and terror and

darling, help me.