I wrote a sonnet. The title is “For *Name*”. There’s a name that goes there, but I don’t want to put it.
Here is the stain from where you slammed
my skull against the wall. Microbes of spittle
blending cat hair, carpet fibers and the feel
of hot breath from your heaving jaw I clenched
so tight that my crackling flesh matched the blush
[………….]of your gums.
Here is the indent from where you pinned
me, the stench of yeast clinging to your skin,
staunching the soap-smell of hair: sandy, lush,
and dripping blood from a clump in my fist.
Here you cried against me three weeks after
your tour in Juvenile Hall, when your mother
said she didn’t love you anymore and whisked
us together like cage-raised chicken eggs
in a short-fused powder keg.
the rhyme scheme is abbacddceffegg, a variation on the Shakespearean abab etc.; that funky bracket ellipses is because I can’t figure out how to indent.
I haven’t been able to write this summer. It hasn’t been working. I have ideas and junk and crap but all I want to do is not eat and bathe in the smug waters of depression and self-righteous bullshit. That sentence had too many words.
I want to write a story about a house that leaks worms during storms. Maybe it’s haunted? I talked about ghosts with a friend of mine last night. I don’t believe in them, because I don’t believe in the soul. It won’t be a good story. My stories tend to be awful. My poetry is pretty solid for a 20-year-old girl with no life experience. I write stories like I write poems and they end up looking and sounding fabricated. I can’t think of a better word than fabricated. The worms would fall out of the cracks in the ceiling and fall into buckets meant for rain.
I also want to write about a cat that steps up its game. It starts killing crickets and spiders. It moves on to rats and bunnies and other small rodents. Then cats. Then small dogs and big dogs. Then a deer maybe. I don’t know. I just imagine a cat walking around oblivious to the increasingly larger legs sticking out of its mouth.
I’m Heidi. I’m a student studying creative writing and art history. I had a tumblr for my poems, but I deleted it. Tumblr makes me so angry. I’m a hypocrite, and I feel guilty more often than I should.