It was a Tuesday when they woke me by banging my temple against the steel headboard, and the skin split, and from under my eyelids one million black widows waltzed out onto the red dance floor. There is a meaning in everything, in the small circle of my wrist bone, in the lamp that flickers three times and dies, in the boy with many secrets that spill like milk at the feet of a woman in black. And every sentence, every word to come out of my mouth is a separate square of cloth, is another beginning. It was not supposed to be this way, I promise you, poetry books where my kidneys used to be.
And if at night you hear a soft melody and mistake it for a howl full of agony, perhaps you are clawing at the same barred windows as myself. Perhaps your nails have bent too far backwards and weep to their chewed cuticles. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps united we stand, and perhaps I should not have fixed the typo at my first attempt. Untied we stand, untied we fall. Laces. Shoe laces. Undo me, unfold me, unwrap me, unimagine me. Say my name backwards. I'll disappear.
I thought to lose myself in the pale skin of another, in freckled shoulders, in eyes blue enough to shame the sky so much it charcoaled its lids. I thought that love would save me, and the bruises it would leave on my arms from pulling me up would fade, and on the other side would be that ephemeral feeling I had often doubted existed. And I would be able to hold it in my hands. And I would be able to swallow it down, until it was inside of me, until it twined like ivory leaves on the ladder of my ribcage.
Instead all I gained was red string. Miles and miles of red string tied around my fingers until I could feel my heartbeat in the purple tips. Red string reminding me of kisses with his hand cupping my jaw, reminding me of nights spent awake and yearning, reminding me of secret heartbreaks -- heartbreaks I kept to myself for fear of losing This, in fear of speaking and being heard, in fear of existing as someone more than this all forgiving, all loving, all believing creature. This creature I demand of myself to make up for the layers of dirt stuck to my skin, dirt that cannot ever be removed, dirt that has accompanied every action, every thought, every feeling I have ever had.
When I was a little girl I used to tuck my limbs under bathwater and sit very still until the heat leaked out to some place I could not name. I used to count the palm prints on my body, and even then I was sorry. Even then I was trying to provide comfort to someone who didn't deserve it. Even then, even then, when I was young I was broken. Even before the monsters became real I was broken. Things just come into focus with age, the way my structure is two inches off, tilting, wavering under the slightest breeze.
I learned to smile by imitation, not emotion. Spent afternoons in front of the bathroom mirror tugging my lips up towards the ceiling whose tiles I had counted frontwards and backwards. Nothing ever changed. Nothing ever changes. And if I were to close my eyes in a dream, and if I were to fall asleep, I would be dreaming of dreaming a dream just like this one. Each detail traced and coloured in until it's so sickeningly perfect in its imperfection.
I just want you to understand. I just want someone somewhere to know. And half the time I can't even unweave the meaning from the metaphor, and half the time my mouth is slack and dumb. I just need to keep trying because I think if I were to sit here for years, if I were to grow a great white beard, there might be something worth keeping. And it would not be beautiful, or printed between glossed hardcovers. But it would be an explanation, or perhaps an apology. It would be something useful: A User Guide To My Guts.
And I spend my nights awake and trying to figure out how I came from there to here, how the path affected me and changed me and left me collapsed on the inside. I don't come up with anything though. And I could tell you what the doctors thought. I could tell you how having my face pushed into a pillow until my neck muscles pinched and breathing was impossible filled me with a fear that has yet to leave, but this kind of fracture is much more subtle, and it must have occurred in a moment so insignificant that I didn't think to file it away for further examination. Like walking home from the beach with sand in your shoes. Like a single skipped heartbeat.
If I keep digging, if I keep writing without thought, if I keep letting what comes come and wash over me, then maybe it will come out of hiding. Maybe it will reveal itself, unbutton its blouse and seduce me with the truth. And I'll know. And the knowing won't fix anything. But it would be something. A reason. That's all I need. I need a reason for being the way I am. I need a reason so that when people look at me with confused eyes I could open up and explain to them what I've spent my life trying to figure out, explain to them what I would've spent my life giving myself similar looks over if possible.
So it was a Tuesday when they woke me by banging my temple against the steel headboard, and the skin split, and from under my eyelids one million black widows waltzed out onto the red dance floor. I was never scared of spiders, only ballerinas and princess crowns and the colour pink. But spiders were beautiful, their webs collecting dew in the mornings, their skin filled with midnight and ink. And there is a boy who has a piece of my heart, and he shouldn't, and I cannot help myself. He is a spider, too. He dreams with a knife under his pillow and wakes up afraid to move, confused, and without breath.
I know better now than to think that love will save me, pick me up. In fact, sometimes I have to wonder if I made the right decision. Sometimes I have to wonder if I lost my wings to its glory, sometimes I have to wonder if I was ready, or if I would ever be ready. Sometimes I have to wonder because something feels a little too much like rubble and ash and from what I've read, it isn't supposed to. And I'll keep bending my spine in shapes foreign to me and hoping I can please, hoping I can salvage some sort of self-worth through forgiving those who cannot forgive themselves, through granting absolution to those who will only continue to hurt me.
This means nothing. I am an overgrown forest and there is no escape, but God how I wish there was.
You're writing is contrived and lacks fluidity. You have tons of run on sentences that make it hard to read, and grammatically your sentences are structured poorly.
Your paragraphs don't link, it's like letting go of the clutch of a manual car without easing it. Paragraphs are all seemingly only sized to be aesthetic like you made them that way just because that's about the size a paragraph "should" be as opposed to what fits together inside a paragraph. This all makes it incredibly hard to drudge through.
The topic is gloomy and not in an enlightened way, this is more pitiful self loathing in the worst kind of way. Don't get me wrong, I read lots of morbid writing, but it is well written and thoughtful. Not to mention thought provoking. All this sounds like is you are throwing your drama onto paper and trying to make it sound melodramatic.
One last thing, a lot of words you used didn't fit the tone or fit into the diction for your piece. Mostly sounds like words you thesaurus'd because you wanted your work to sound more intellectually gloomy as opposed to "emo", which is what it is. Not only do they detract from the writing, they just sound stupid and aren't even used in proper context.
Overall I would say this is pretty poor writing, stop the self righteous act and start writing from within and not to be melodramatic and maybe you won't be so bad.
I appreciate your honesty, but I've read some of your stuff, and well, I'll take your review with a grain of salt since we clearly are in quite different places with our writing and what we want from it. But I do appreciate you taking the time to read it and let me know your thoughts.
Second hand analysis. So this is how the other part feels, when they find out leaving their love, breaking their heart and ruining their life completely, is nothing good? I wonder if that is how regret feels as well, after breaking trust, sleeping with someone else for no reason, seeking something else, just to see what they needed was theirs. Was. Angsty.
I wrote it quite a while ago actually -- last August I believe. It was about struggling to hold together a relationship that was falling apart due to my significant other's lack of effort.
But that's the beauty of creative writing, you can interpret any way you want.
I appreciate your honesty, but I've read some of your stuff, and well, I'll take your review with a grain of salt since we clearly are in quite different places with our writing and what we want from it. But I do appreciate you taking the time to read it and let me know your thoughts.
You shouldn't take my "review" with a grain of salt, because the only time I am expressively a mean person is when I know the person and they say something stupid that angers me. I have never seen you post and don't hold a grudge therefor I wouldn't lie for nothing, so apparently you aren't read a word I've written or you would know that.
As for calling this a review, that implies it's opinion, it's really not. It's hard fact backed my my English prowess that I pride myself on. You could argue for days that we are in "different places with our writing" but that simply is a self defense mechanism for not having proper writing styles to back you up.
I appreciate you trying to defend your writing, but you need to take a good hard step back and realize that this isn't really good.
You can either keep thinking this is good, write for yourself, and enjoy it in the privacy or your own house where no one else will want to read it.
OR
You can actually realize that this is pretty poor writing, stylistically and technique wise. And then try and improve, and possible actually look back and enjoy your writing and share it with people who will want to read it.
Well, Klaushouse, opinions vary and I've had a lot of success with my writing (I've been published before) and am a member of many different writing sites (some with people who have gotten their books published through legit companies) who love my work. If you don't like it, that's okay. But you have no right to think that your word on writing is law -- just like you don't enjoy my writing, I don't have to enjoy yours.
But again, thank you for taking the time to review it. I do appreciate it, I just happen to disagree with you.
I am not arguing that you have other good writings, I am saying this is trash. You might write some other great stuff but this is complete garbage by any standards. No only cause its just bad, but because you use words incorrectly, and that essentially means piss poor no matter how you look at it.
That's like saying if I put a porsche door on a jeep and people said it looks retarded I would say "well no its just my opinion". No obviously not, its the wrong door it doesn't fit the car, just like half your thesaurus words don't fit this text.
And I have people who are AMAZING at art tell me my art is good as well, when its not that great. It's called PATRONIZING, learn this word and life will make more sense. Your friends who are probably more successful in writing than you are, don't want to feel like jerks saying that your work sucks, because they probably make a living off of it and you don't.
There is a very thin line between bad writing and writing that just isn't for me, and you sprinted like a Jew out of Auschwitz across that line.
Please stop talking to me condescendingly like I am some sort of troll. Makes me lose confidence in the feminist movement when women start to act superior to people who so clearly are better than them.
Okay. Thanks Klaus. I see where you're coming from, and I'll look back over your review and try to improve.
you take advice well
I am not arguing that you have other good writings, I am saying this is trash. You might write some other great stuff but this is complete garbage by any standards. No only cause its just bad, but because you use words incorrectly, and that essentially means piss poor no matter how you look at it.
you could have said the same thing while not being as mean..
Personally, I didn't like it. I'm saying it nicer than Klaus, but honestly to me it just seems like you were going on and on. Great writers use metaphors, but your whole story is less of a story and more like one emo phrase and metaphor after another, with no real story behind it. It's like you were writing to write, and sound like an artiste, if you will. But...you put effort into it, and who am I to judge?
I write a lot of prose blurbs. They don't really have much story to them unless you're me, admittedly. But I've had some really good reviews and people relating to it on other sites, so I thought it was worth a shot to post here.
I'll work on putting a more clear story -- or maybe posting one of my short stories here.
