Abridged Character Sheet
- Book, Chapter
Appearance: (What does your character look like? Written descriptions are fine.)
Other Names: (Nicknames, pen names, pet names, etc.)
Titles: (Prefixes, suffixes, etc. Wikipedia has a great list of these here.)
Alternate Forms: (What can your character turn into, voluntarily or involuntarily, while retaining control over that form or not? Descriptions are fine. An entirely new character sheet would be best.)
Theme Song: (What song best describes you character?)
Death Date: (Leave this blank if you don't know when they will die. You can alwa
One, two, threeMy boyfriend watched, open mouthed
as I unscrewed the lid of your urn,
and ran my fingers through your ashes.
Your depression, your soul dust.
I felt nothing other than
an ocean roiling beneath my ribs,
and an urge to hold the brass ossuary,
and rock you back and forth
like you did for me when I was young.
At the funeral, my uncle announced
that you despised religion.
But he left out the part
where you did believe in a God,
just that he was always punishing you.
“There was nothing you could have done”
said the other uncle.
I think of all those spent wishes,
the birthday candles extinguished for gifts,
the meteor showers I wasted on love,
the prayers offered from family friends
that are now given a little too late.
This year, I turn 22 years old.
But when I blow out the candles,
my wish won’t matter.
None of them did.
The Art of Poetry KillingWhen I find an old poem
Packaged beneath an allegory
Or taped beside a piece of prose,
Warm and balmy and still swollen
Ripe with the undisturbed
Within their plastic wrapper,
I untangle its cellophane bindings
To find it's too old
And too stale for the proper use of a poem
So I pluck out its
Like some guts of a creature
And sew them
Onto other dust poems
Like the mismatched socks
Of a child
Just like murder is an art,
I still walk away with ink on my hands.
Art MajorI remember the tangle of cloth,
my teacher set up,
with the lights set so,
the shadows were all angles.
I was more focused on the moth,
bumping into the light bulb.
A talk with Dad about his cancerI put my trust in the pilot,
the man in the cockpit
to get me home.
With closed eyes he adds,
I can live with that.
June 1, 2014 1:39 PMI lean in to kiss you.
I push hard, because I want you
to love me. and you push back
because you want to fuck me.
I am a cliche. for so long
I believed that you loved me
even when there were sings
to prove that you did not.
I am that girl
that clings to an idea of love
fed to her by the twisted mouth
of someone just as hungry.
you unclip my jeans, you push
back my neck, and I hold onto
you tight, thinking
this is love, this is how you
Who Is Your MotherThere is no tired like new-mother,
brand-new mother exhausted.
Sleep a while; please sleep a while.
I tuck your arms into soft fleece, mark the 'O'
of your tiny mouth as I do it, crook you
in one elbow. We are surely alone, and slip
into dreams, you and this woman
who is your mother, drowning together
in pillows, bed-sheets, down.
There is no fear like new-mother,
groggy, incision-pain, narcotic-haze,
frantic new-mother terror. Sleep
a while; please sleep a while.
My heart lurches -- stops -- breaks.
I jolt across the bed, scanning
your tiny face for breathing signs,
a twitch, a sigh. We are still alone
and when you move, I crook you back
into my elbow. Sleep a while.
Favourite genre of music: Alternative rock and metalcore|
Favourite style of art: Photography
Operating System: Window
MP3 player of choice: iPod(c) and Zune HD
Personal Quote: All those feelings, those yesterday's feelings will all be lost in time.