hi! if you know me you might remember almost a year ago i asked everyone to write a poem together by adding a line in the comments! i loved it so much, and the end result was so beautiful (see: astronomical on my profile) that i wanted to do it again!

so please, anyone is encouraged to contribute a line or several! the only rule is that the comment above yours must not be your own :)

line 1: i knew the stars, once.

There’s a little house on a hill, out on the prairie. Tall, yellowing grass extends as far as the eye could see; a vast grassland stretching to the far corners of the Earth. The house is decently sized, two stories and fairly wide. A porched adorned with vines sagged at the front, little pink flowers blooming, twisting up the supports.

But standing on that porch, was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties. And in his arms, he held a baby. He stared straight at me, a smile donned on his face. He was handsome, that was for sure. There was a kind of glow about him, one that was ethereal. Like a little drop of Heaven on Earth. He glanced down at the babe, cooing softly. He swayed side to side, rocking the child to a peaceful sleep. Except for the soft rustle of the grass in the wind, no sound could be heard.

I watched as he pressed a soft kiss to the infant’s forehead. He said nothing when he turned towards me again, adjusting his child in his arms. Approaching him, I peered inside the house. taking in all the potted plants and stunning art.

It was perfect. At least, as close to perfect as it could get.

I was now close enough to him that I could touch him. Reaching out, I placed my hand on his cheek, cradling his head. He was beautiful, so utterly beautiful that it stole my breath away. I let my fingers fall away from his face, focusing on the child in his arms. The babe was so tiny, wrapped securely in a pale yellow blanket. I gently took the baby from him, lightly brushing it's nose with my pinky as I marveled at it. Somehow, I knew. Somehow I knew that it was mine. And I was in love.

Choking back tears, I swayed back and forth with my child, looking at the man on the porch. And I knew he was mine too. My one-and-only. My other half. My forever. He smiled sweetly, pressing a light kiss to my lips as we stood side by side on the steps. "I love you," I said, voice little more than a murmur.

"And I you," he told me right back, pressing his forehead to mine.

Everything was right in the world. No stress weighed me down, no anxiety held me back. My life revolved not only around me anymore, but rather the people I called family.

But alas, it's just a dream. One that I put down on paper and cry over. One that I wished was real, but isn't. It's just a piece of art. A piece of literature. And that's all it will ever be.

Am I just not good enough for you,

Mother?

Am I just not the perfect daughter you want me to be?

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that I just can't fit into the mold you created for me.

See,

The thing is,

I don't want to be your carbon copy.

Because even though I love you,

I resent you.

I really do.

And I hate that feeling,

You know?

That burning bitterness in my heart every time you say my name,

Thinking, 

"Here we go again"

Because every time you talk to me,

It's because I've done something wrong.

Because you find something about me you don't like. 

That's not up-to-par with your idea of perfection.

You have my crying in the shower,

You know.

Is this the kind of power you want?

The kind that hold me back against my will?

The controlling type?

I know you didn't grow up in a good home,

Mother.

But I'm so sick of dealing with your brat-ishness.

Those beauty standards like those of society. 

I'm sorry I'm not a twig,

That I have curves more than you think I should.

I'm sorry that I have the kind of friends you would never have.

I'm sorry that I don't bend to your will right away.

I'm sorry that I cry when I'm sad.

I'm sorry that I want to do my own thing.

I'm sorry that I want to leave;

To run away and never return.

I'm sorry that I'm so angry.

I'm sorry that I'm so anxious.

I'm sorry that my grades aren't perfect A's 100% of the time.

I'm sorry that I'm stressed.

Stop telling me to talk to you,

Mother.

Stop telling me to share with you every secret of mine, 

Every thought and feeling.

Because the days that were rough,

And I finally explained my opinions and emotions,

You make me feel invalid.

Snide remarks about my weight make me feel like a pig.

Makes me want to stop eating.

Comments on my black liner,

Make me feel ugly.

Snippets of conversations I hear about my way of dress,

Which let me say,

Is just your clothes worn differently,

Makes me feel like un-modest when I know that I am.

Just stop,

Mother.

If I want to cry in peace,

Let me.

Don't ask questions where they're not wanted.

Don't talk to people about how great I am and then tell me I'm disgusting.

Don't act like the perfect mother when all you do is yell at me and make me self-conscious. 

I'm sorry,

Mother.

For not hugging you when I needed to be alone.

I'm sorry I made you cry.

Stop treating me like a child,

Mother,

When you expect me to be an adult.

I hate it,

Mother.

I really do.

Do you notice that?

I don't say Mom anymore.

I just coldly say "Mother" because that's all the fight I have in me now.

I'm terribly sorry,

If I'm the problem.

But after discussion with my therapist,

My cousins,

My aunts and uncles,

My great-grandmother,

And my best friends (Which are more of a family to me than you)

They've all determined that you are,

Indeed,

A problem.

And I don't know how to tell you that.

For years,

Mother,

I've told you repeatedly that I don't like it here.

That I can't talk to you.

That you make me feel gross.

That you're so demanding and childish and negative.

Perhaps it's time 

To tell you.

That I'm breaking.

Because your grip on me is too tight.

You need to let me go.

(For anyone who struggles in a bad home situation, or even struggles relationship wise with one of their parental figures, I send my love and hopes and prayers. Know that you are not alone, and that there's always someone willing to listen. <3)

I'm cracking, forming

    f

        r

    a

  g

      m

    e

n    

      t

  s

Bits of porcelain skin smashing against the ground,

Frustrated,

A            

    N       

        G

            R    

                Y

More fragile than fine china, 

But not covered in delicate images,

No petals could cover the thorns ruining my mind,

D    R    I    P    P    I    N    G          B    L    O    O    D

The porcelain reflects the pain I feel,

Shattering against the earth,

In a million pieces because they don't care.

Unable to be glued back together,

L       S        N

    O        I        G           

The good part of me.

That warm tea.

Only cold and humiliating. 

Thrown away and never to be seen again.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips parted slightly. He looms over you, the rising sun highlighting his golden skin and reflecting in his heavenly eyes. His hands wrap around your lower back, holding you close. This man, this beautiful creature before you, is everything. Your night and your day. Your joy and your sorrow. He smiles softly, leaning closer. His breath is minty in your nose and warm on your face. You stand on your toes, pressing impossibly close to him. Just before your lips meet, he turns away, looking out the window. You watch him watch the sun as it crests the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant pinks and golds. His long lashes flutter as he ponders. "This. This is what I want," he says quietly, turning to look at you once more. He leans closer to you again, and just before your lips meet, he says, "To share every dawn with you."

ask the skeleton watering his roots; the flower blooms,

as the muscle beats to the pitter-patter tune. grow emotion,

miss the allusion once the canvas is painted raw but new:

follow your heart's a pretentious phrase; cliches are only broken

when society begs for their way.

& while eternity’s too many syllables for a broken word;

crumble the note. light the match, blow the smoke,

we’re salted ash and broken bone: watch through eyes

that aren’t your own, blind? those truths bind.

you’ve burned the innocent, cry. tragedy’s an overused

drug for me, sorrow’s simply ugly; bloodied knuckles

drying, gold tears staining. the statue of an angel mocks me,

we adore mythology; i digress.

The faint ticking of the grandfather clock pounded in her ears as she watched the second hand spin in slow, methodical circles. Lazily swirling the spirits in her glass cup, she rested her chin on the palm of her hand. Her lips, which used to be a sweet strawberry color, were now mauve. Those locks of once fair hair had been dyed to a rich brown.

From where she sat on the red couch, she could see the city. In the wee hours of the morning, the stupid place was still buzzing with activity. She supposed it was to be expected. During these hours, she used to watch out for the people down below her apartment. Now, she watched chaos unfold. Somewhere outside the glass walls of her cold home, her family desperately tried to hold back the dark forces threatening their home. She used to care. 

Funny how the hero's story ends tragically. Achilles was murdered with a poisoned arrow, and Jason died alone, killed by his own rotting ship. That was the fate of heroes. Give all, given none. She supposed that was the spiel; heroes are selfless and there to lay down their lives for the sake of others. But no one pays heed to the hero's own struggles. Who will be there to save the saving grace? 

She stuck her tongue in her cheek, tipping her head back and downing the alcohol in one gulp. She didn't even feel the burn of the liquor anymore. What was funny to her was the fact her brothers considered her the villain in their story. Certainly, she was content with watching her home descend into madness. Just like she did all those years ago. Tortured by the very people she was trying to protect. In a sense, the world failed her. But watching the world fall apart around her didn't make her a villain. It made her a bystander. In a way, that was her very own tragic end. All those years of work and responsibility ended up leaving her with nothing. 

Her eyes drifted back to the clock, roaming the face of the marvelous piece of furniture. It wouldn't be long until her family turned into dust and left the city unprotected. Though the thought should have disturbed her, it didn't. She lacked the empathy she once had. It had done her no good, and she found that she was better without. Maybe once the world had been wiped away, she could restart. All alone she may be, but she didn't care. She used to care.

Leaning forward, she set the glass down on the ottoman, the ice cubes clicking against the rim. She hung her head, laughing softly to herself. How stupid was she to think she could have saved the world? a complete idiot, she was, to have thought they would praise her, and honor her name with parades through town square. She curled into herself, trying to block out the memories of her final day as a hero. Locked in a cell, rats scuttling across her blackened feet. Greasy blonde hair, matted at the back, housing all kinds of bugs that didn't belong there. The time spent huddled in a corner, trying to shelter herself from the cold and the rain. The moments where all felt lost; when she felt abandoned. It was those moments that she realized the people who wanted to be saved weren't willing to save the person who kept them from harm's way. 

"Funny," she said, blinking hard. Standing up, she walked closer to the overlook. Funny how ungrateful people could be to someone even after their lives were saved dozens of times by that person. Funny how others took credit where it wasn't deserved. When it wasn't theirs to begin with. People would fight tooth and nail to steal another's honor. 

Pressing her palm against the glass, she looked down at the street below. From where she stood, she could hear the honking of angry drivers and the cursing of the drunk men stumbling down the street. She couldn't smell the sweet cigarettes or taste the bitter alcohol on the air. Nor did she care. But she used to. 

She used to be a hero, but the world failed her and left her broken beyond repair. 

whispers of things left undone

rattle in my eardrums

veiny fingers wrapping around my lungs

forcing exhalations of broken pleas for peace

gasping and searching for a quiet that will never come

my brain works like clockwork

it is inside out

it is purging my own thoughts

i dreamt i cut out my own heart

empty cavities remaining within blackened gums

smiles with missing teeth and vomit stained lips

you say i am beautiful but do not know how ugly my inside is

there are pills coming out my nose and they taste like abandoned youth

this is a possible side effect, call your doctor if it lasts more than ten to twenty years

i’m not so sane

maybe it’s crazy if you are

sleeping’s a trap; that concept that licks your soul clean,

clawing your skin, craving to be let in - no, it’s either

your heart or your soul or your mind that’s not letting

that sleep encase your entity; no. i’m just trying to sleep;

i think, i don’t really know.