Dec 13

The Confession of a Lifetime Reader

I was always a reader,
ever since I could decipher letters.
(I don't know when it was exactly;
but it must have sparked something in me,
because) after that,
I devoured stories.
Adults were proud of me.
Classmates wondered at it.
In sixth grade, I read books that my brother was assigned
for his AP Lit class.
When asked, I say,
"I like to read."
Or perhaps
"I like books."
I don't speak the truth,
because it might come off as a little bit strange.
The truth is:
I am a book addict.
I read because books have no bearing on reality,
characters do not need me.
I read so that I can experience things entirely new,
and revel in the feeling that it will be all right in the end.
I read so that time passes:
if my nose is in a book, and I am flipping pages,
I do not need to think about anything else.
I do not need to worry about anything in my life.

Nov 30

Hiding From the World

When I was younger,
the world was perfect.
A shining, golden dome
which I had been blessed with living in,
in which I could twirl in the rain and wave sparklers
and not think about reality.
And so I thought I knew the world.
Some sort of paradise in which everybody followed the rules,
in which everything was fair and terrible things simply didn't happen,
or else didn't matter.
It took a long time for that golden bubble to start chipping away.
When it did, I thought the world was ending.
That a series of catastrophes had begun, and would soon end in heartbreak and misery.
When really, what I didn't know was that
it had been going on the whole time.
And now somehow, without knowing it,
I had grown old enough to know.
And it frightened me.
I didn't want the gold to go away.
Still, I cling to those shattered fragments of my golden bubble,
Nov 23

The Stairs Which Led Down Into the Sea

Nov 20
fiction 0 comments challenge: Eyes

Apologies (ended in a bit of a hurry)

It was the eyes, chocolate brown and always searching, which warned me to stop talking. But I, oblivious fool that I am, blundered onwards.
"I didn't try, you see. If I'd realized I would have stopped right away. It's just that ... well, I forgot. I didn't mean to place it so close to my elbow. Really, I didn't!"
The eyes of everyone in the restaurant were on us now. The old woman in the booth behind me was making tuting noises, as if to say, Poor, profusely apologetic fool.
The waitress was still looking down at me.
"I'm really, truly, geniunely, sincerely sorry," I blathered. "Is there anything that I can do to help with the mess? I'm so sorry. I never would have done something like that knowingly. I'm so, so, so, sorry."
The waitress was standing still now, a little astonished-looking that I was giving her such a complete apology.
Nov 16

Straight Lines

Sometimes I wonder, as I sit and draw,
why it is that I can draw people the way I can—
so that they seem to be alive,
caught midstride with their expressions frozen in the moment—
but yet when I try and draw the chair that they are sitting on,
or their windowsill, or the tree they are climbing,
my hand begins to tremble,
my lines wiggle,
the chair leg slides into the table which slides into the windowsill
which was never supposed to be there at all
and the tree branches turn into a mess of squiggly lines
Nov 15

Lit Windows

Now there is mist to shroud the moon in a cloudy veil
as the day slowly lets go of the sky

the earlier frost-melting symphonies of the morning
which raised the far-off premonition of spring
faded into the solitude
of the ice-blue twilight
settling over the expectant hushed world

which watches the coming of the stars with bated breath.
stars, the glittering embers of the snow that is to fall:
bursting through the coldness of the vast sky
to perform the motions of a dance so enormous
that we cannot fathom its movement.

there is only the misty sky clinging to the daylight,
while the cool blue shadows accept what the sky has not.

The neighbors have pulled up their shades.
In each of their glowing windows is a
lit Christmas tree
(never mind the fact that it's not yet December).

the little golden lights glimmering
Nov 12


We sat in darkness. Raindrops beaded on the windshield, and the only sound was the mechanical squeaking of the windshield wiper as it cleared them away. Her face was slightly illuminated by the glow from the lit dashboard. Every once in a while, we would drive by a forlorn little streetlight, and its warm puddle would flood the car, lighting up both of us, then fade away. I watched her face carefully, watching for some crack in the stone mask—for her eyes to wrinkle as a car drove by us, having forgotten to turn off their brights, even for her to blink or to exhale. But she was still and silent. Impassive.
Nov 10


I was in a bit of a rush finishing this. I hope the ending doesn't seem too sudden.
Some people are habitually, routinely late, arriving ten minutes after the start of every event, including school, and I used to be one of them. In fifth grade, I had managed to be late to school thirteen times in September alone, and I decided on the spot that anything—anything—was better than arriving late every day. So from then on, I schooled myself to be compulsively early: fifteen or twenty minutes early to the start of everything, at the very earliest.

Nov 10

I Want - belatedly for 11/9/15

I want to fill my words with power,
so that when people read them,
their hearts begin to sing.
I want to be able to capture moments
more effectively than any camera,
so that they are not so much words
as crisp moments taken from somebody else and placed inside you.
I want to make readers laugh,
and then cry,
and perhaps both at the same time,
as I weave my web of words and people and places, 
and slowly,
one thread at a time,
begin to twist it.
I want to be able to write emotions, even alien unfamiliar ones
so vividly that we can feel them as clearly as when they first began.
I want to capture impatience and restlessness
without inflicting boredom.
I want to be able to twist the threads together into vivid emotions
without having to worry that they are silly and false.
in all honesty,
I can't.
I can create some emotions, basic ones.
Nov 08

Fighting Memories

I've always accepted regret to be useless,
nostalgia no more than false sentiment, truthless.
I've always sought for things to be strong for,
although what has passed I may not long for.
I've never struggled to face each day
with the would-could-should-haves locked away.
But memories so complete and vivid,
the colors sharp and clear and livid, 
steal into my heart in the dark of night
though I drive them away with all my might.
Times of freedom separate from life,
Those blissful moments free of strife,
when I wrapped myself in another identity,
removed, for a time, my awkward propensities.
For a few hours, my mind was free
of the horror and stress of being me.
With our final bows at the end of the show,
as we were kicked, for a few hours, into the snow,
I had discovered a paradise I did not yet have to leave.
From the madness of life, I'd been given a reprieve,