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More from *aprilwednesday

the sepia self She always did love the idea of coffee - the smell of it, the feel of it, the way it made her seem sophisticated whenever she made it. She loved the way it looked when the milk made patterns in the steaming sepia liquid before disappearing into the foam.

But she hated the taste.

And it was the same with cigarettes. She always wanted to be a smoker, to carry fancy cigarettes and fancier lighters and to be able to 'pop out for a smoke', but, as hard as she tried to force the addiction, she got nothing from cigarettes except a pounding headache and the urge to never touch them again.

And oh, how she wanted to go to parties. She wanted to sip
always a work in progress [a certain list poem
of all six regrets
of a certain writer
teenager
s t o r y t e l l e r
girl.]

i always wish that
i had said thank you
that i had told you just how sweet you really were
because when you made me that cupcake [with the little candy heart]
and got all dressed up [just to ask me to dance]
it was the most lovely thing a boy ever
ever
did for me.
and i shouldn't have left you hanging.

and i wish i didn't give up
so easily
i wish that
when i decided to do something
i would actually do it
because being lazy and unreliable can weigh you down so much.

and sometimes, just sometimes
i wish the stories in my head
never forgotten her hair was lit up with traces of red as the sun trickled in, fighting its way through the dust to reach the creaky wooden floor. and her knees, her knees were pressed into the floor too, and they were sore from splinters – but she barely noticed. all she wanted was that

box.

it was old and worn, and when she pulled it towards herself she moved carefully so it wouldn't break. and then slowly, slowly, with her chipped orange and blue fingernails, she peeled the tape off.

and she closed her eyes as they washed over her – images of playing in the grass until her feet turned green, of running and running until she couldn't breathe [
yes. have you ever loved someone so different
so out of reach, so
e t h e r e a l
that you might as well be in love with the stars in the sky?

and have you ever wondered about
ghosts?
about the unseen and the otherworldly and the
just
plain
bizarre?

have you ever wanted to
t
 h
  r
   o
    w
your computer out the window
because the backspace key keeps sticking
and you feel like that must be some kind of ironic sign?

have you ever listened to the stories
dancing around in your head?
or seen something
[a look, or a smile, or frosted tree branches glittering in the sun]
that
just a little walk He always loved the city; he loved the way it could swallow him whole.

And sometimes he would walk for hours (and hours and hours), and at first it would be beautiful because the late afternoon sunlight turned everything gold and pink and lovely, and warmed his pale skin. And, before the sun set, he always noticed things; nice things that made him smile. He noticed people playing and laughing, buskers giving loud, friendly compliments, trees swaying serenely in the breeze, and for a while he would feel like he was part of something bigger and better and happier.

And then it would fill the air – the soft smell of dinner cooking, twistin

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anemic, broken, and growing up anyway

by *aprilwednesday

when my sister was five, she dictated a letter to me in her strong little voice
while dust drifted in the sunshine
of our creaky old room.

dear me [she said],
barney is the best. i will wear blue all the time even though i'm a girl. my heart beats without me telling it to and that's pretty cool. i think people always feel better if you tell them you love them. i will always smile because i have dimples when i smile.
love,
me.

"did you write it?" she asked, and i told her i did, every word
with the chunky yellow pencil i'd fished out of my school bag.
i handed her the letter, and she folded it up carefully
and she smiled.

when my sister was fifteen, she was a little bit broken
anemic and pale, with unsure hair and shaky hands.
when i came home to visit she whispered to me that
she didn't understand
and when i asked her what she didn't understand, she said
"everything."

she wrote another letter that night.

dear me [it said],
this isn't a suicide note. this isn't another angsty poem. this isn't a journal entry. this is me saying that i hurt even though i'm fine, and i'm broken even though i'm whole, and i'm lost even though i haven't gone anywhere. this is me saying that i wish something bad would happen so i'd have an excuse for feeling this way. this is me saying that i'm too tired to smile anymore.
-me.

i found her original letter, written in my handwriting on a crumpled piece of paper
and i showed it to her
and asked what had changed.
mascara covered her freckles as she whispered
"everything."

but the earth kept spinning and children kept growing and stars kept twinkling and this morning when i woke up, i had a letter from her.

dear you [i read],
today it's raining, which is silly really, because i can't stop smiling. was just going through some old things. found that letter from when i was five - remember? michael read it and he says that my dimples are indeed adorable and i should definitely keep smiling. he says hi, by the way, sends his love.
anyway, i just wanted to write you because you worry and i worry too so i know what that's like. but i'm happy. my heart keeps beating even though i don't tell it to. that's pretty cool.
-love.

i sensed some secret words hidden behind the blue ink.
the smell of coffee drifted lazily through my sunny little apartment as i picked up the phone,
and i could hear my sister's dimply smile as she answered, and her dimply laugh as i asked her what had changed, and her soft voice as she said, simply
"everything."
:iconaprilwednesday:
does it end in the right place? wasn't too sure where i wanted to go with it.

on a completely unrelated note, i've been watching Sherlock all weekend. does anyone else watch it? best show ever :love:

comments are always loved :heart:

[my blog]
:icon:
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-03-01
anemic, broken, and growing up anyway by *aprilwednesday ( Suggested by ~Dancing-In-Heels and Featured by ^Beccalicious )
love 11 11 joy 4 4 wow 1 1 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconmoonkidd:
~Moonkidd Mar 28, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
This poem keeps swimming through my head. I feel as though there has to be more behind the words than what I've puzzled out.

All I know is that my heart keeps beating, and that's pretty cool.

Thank you for writing this amazing piece. Have a cookie. :cookie:

--
icon by ~Herzlose

We're all mad here.
Reply
:iconaprilwednesday:
*aprilwednesday Mar 31, 2012   Writer
thank you so so much :huggle:

COOKIE :iconcookiemonsterplz:

--
a teacup full of wine.
Reply
:iconmoonkidd:
~Moonkidd Mar 31, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
You're very welcome. :hug:

--
icon by ~Herzlose

We're all mad here.
Reply
:iconcurlandgrazes:
*curlandgrazes Mar 27, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
"My heart keeps beating, even though I don't tell it to." Certainly one of my favourite quotes of all time :). x

--
Freedom is what you do with what has been done to you. J.P. Sartre
Reply
:iconaprilwednesday:
*aprilwednesday Mar 28, 2012   Writer
thank you so much! :huggle:

--
a teacup full of wine.
Reply
:iconbreathingglassstars:
~breathingglassstars Mar 11, 2012   Writer
this left me in awe. you are amazing. ♥
Reply
:iconaprilwednesday:
*aprilwednesday Mar 12, 2012   Writer
you're the amazing one, actually. thank you so much :heart:

--
a teacup full of wine.
Reply
:iconbreathingglassstars:
~breathingglassstars Mar 27, 2012   Writer
oh now that's not true, silly<3 but thank you and you're welcome!
Reply
:iconlottie-girl:
~Lottie-Girl Mar 11, 2012  Student General Artist
I like your use of letters, a very engaging piece. :)

--
'It is necessary to understand
That a poet may not exist, that his writings
Are the incomplete circle and straight drop
Of a question mark.'
~Ern Malley.
Reply
:iconaprilwednesday:
*aprilwednesday Mar 12, 2012   Writer
thanks so much :heart:

--
a teacup full of wine.
Reply
:icon:
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the wind's story  the air was thick and sharp with the smell of salt. wind gusted across the beach, kicking up dusty piles of sand. it was midnight.

a young girl with fiery hair stood there, digging her toes into the cold, white sand. she had the anxious, exhilarated look of someone breaking the rules, and yet she couldn't bring herself to regret coming here; the alternative was being at home in bed, watching the walls around her shiver every time her father sucked in a loud, rumbling breath. best case scenario, she'd simply be dreaming - and this was better than dreams.

she took a deep breath and called the wind by name.

it was loud at first, coming in a the wind's story by *aprilwednesday
supernova beauty and a green-tea sea  it's like you put all my words in parentheses
(said in a whisper,
taken out of the conversation;
irrelevant)

and you say you love me. i know
that sometimes words are true,
but true in a different way than you first
may have thought
because our voices don't come out
in black or white or shades of gray
but in bursts of red
intangible emotions and thoughts that can mean
everything
and nothing

and i do believe you love me.

you love me like a tornado loves the ground
like raspberries love white clothes, like
rain loves joining in on people's plans
you love me like nighttime loves fears and
death loves the weak and the green-teasupernova beauty and a green-tea sea by *aprilwednesday
tangled up thoughts  when she was a little girl, she
never wanted to be a princess.

it wasn't because she didn't like them,
but because
where other girls saw beauty
and glitter
and beautiful dresses, silky and soft
she saw power.
she saw a power and a responsibility that
no amount of beauty would
ever make her want

and she read books about
anne boleyn,
and visited haunted castles
and tried to imagine the kind of life where
people were locked up in towers
and brothers murdered brothers,
husbands wives.
she tried to imagine what those
big stone castles would look like at
night, with the lights taken away
and she tried to imagine waking up
atangled up thoughts by *aprilwednesday
bird heart and burning soul  in art, mistakes are beautiful when they're made with confidence.
                                        
                                                                  the same applies tobird heart and burning soul by *aprilwednesday
blue hour eyes  people say
sparks fly when you meet your somebody

but it wasn't like that with you.
there were no sparks when we met,
no birds singing, no cartoon
hearts.

you were reading.
it was a thick book, and old,
and dogeared
and you glanced up at me,
and smiled
and i remember noticing that your
eyes were blue
[not blue like the ocean
or the sky
but blue like mountains that are fading
into the distance
blue like the moment after the sun sets
blue like snow in the twilight]

and when i heard your
voice for the first time,
it felt familiar
and new
and strange, but beautiful
twisting around me
like the music you sometimes hear in
blue hour eyes by *aprilwednesday
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