Poetry Contest Submissions

I need to work on my writing more and as a part of that, this year, I started my memoir over again. Yep, totally re-writing it. Same ideas, different direction. I might post the first page or so of that on here, we'll see. 

I also decided to enter some writing contests, something I used to do all the time as a kid, but steered clear from as an adult. But, today, I entered a poetry contest. So, since some magazine is going to be judging my poetry, I figured I might as well let the blogging world judge it too. 

What You Hear 

Fingers brush through my hair

Sliding up and over.

Again and Again.

But not repetitive.

Like my favorite song

I never tire of the words.

Instead they embed themselves into me

Weaving in and out of my soul

Ribbons tying perfect knots

Sliding up

I breathe in,

And over,

I breathe out

A needed motion

To remind me

That I can breathe.

An unfamiliar room

In an unfamiliar house

In an unfamiliar city

I recognize only you.

And the fingers that slide

Up and over.

As tears run down my face

To join the words that spill

Out of my mouth

And onto the mattress,

A floodgate broken open.

And only the sound of your

Sighing

Silences the gush and the crash,

Calms

The panic and the urgency

That wraps tightly around my lungs

And squeezes with the intention to

Drown me in my own heartbreak.

But your fingers

Slide up and over,

Untangling strands of

Blonde and brunette

The way your presence

Has untangled years of

Secrets, cross-stitched into

My heart

That only beats from the power

Of the very scars it tries to hide,

A cadence only you can hear. 

Darkness

I remember darkness.

Until my eyelids snapped open and my father’s voice awoke me soft and worried,

“Wake up. I need you to get up.”

Startled, annoyed…naïve,

I peeled my legs from the mattress, as though I was removing bandages

From a wound not yet healed.

I remember I stopped.

Ten steps from my bedroom door, lay my mother on our floor.

Like snow, her white night gown spilled out around her.

She, a child, too tired to make snow angels anymore.
Bitter, I fastened my mouth, wiped their sour residue away and stood rigid.

Instead of thrashing her arms, giggling and squirming

As children would at their excitement for Christmas, for presents…for angels-

She lays there at peace with the quaint, questionable, quietness of the white.

I remember two fingers.

Trembling, I pressed them against her throat.

Still warm to the touch. I swallowed.

Swallowed down my fear. Swallowed down my heartbreak.

But I could not swallow down, no matter how hard I tried, the words:

“Dad, you need to call 9-1-1.”

I clenched my teeth together, behind these bars, these words could not escape.

I remember desperation.

The words crawled up my throat.

Pleading, I pressed two fingers down again.

They clawed at my tongue. My eyes met my father. I swallowed.

They pried open my lips and spilled out, dribbling onto the floor, onto the white.

“Dad you need to call 9-1-1.”

My sister would need something to lean on.

I remember when the paramedics and police showed up.

Blinking machines like soulless robots flashed in my eyes to a beat I could never forget.

She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.

I remember my sister reached out for my hand. Two fingers.

I remember my dad looked at me for validation of the paramedic’s confirmation. Desperation.

I remember walking them to the door, my sister back to her room. I stopped five steps from my door.

But most of all, I remember sinking to the floor, my head between my knees, eyes slowly closing,

No teardrops. Just darkness. 

What is Not You

What is not you:

This pillow.

The one propped against my back.

Desperation to imitate your presence.

The one covered in a soft pink case.

A shade lighter than the color your cheeks turn

When I catch you

Staring.

At the colors in my eyes.

Or thinking.

How I am perfect.

For you.

You notice me.

Noticing you.

Corners turn upwards.

Doggy ears being unmarked.

A place I will always remember.

Ready to begin again.

Eyes dart down

And back up again.

They’ll always return here.

Like mine to the pages.

Rose colored speckles

Reach out across your cheeks.

Hardly noticeable.

Like the beach’s crystals across the

Palm of my hand.

Colors so slightly different from one another

You have to look

To see.
They Appear.

You Smile.

They disappear, just as quickly.

Just a flash.

Like every memory I have of you.

Hundreds of flashes.

Bright, white, light.

On.

Flash.

Off, just as quickly.

Fabricated together

The way symbols on a page form

The beauty of music.

But you would never know.

Unless you can see.

Unless you can read the images.

And I can.

But they are pulled too fast

Across the screen of my mind.

I can hear the music.

But the symbols move too fast.

I cannot form their figures.

I cannot read what they say.

Flash.

Slow down.

Flash.

My heart whispers to my mind

Slow down.

What is not you:

These memories.

They are trails I follow

In hopes to be led back to you.

But no trail takes me to you

Each one ends at its start.

This time at staggered books across the shelf.

My eyes sting as they try to focus on the words

That spell titles across spines I have

Gazed at a hundred times.

Spines that remind me now that

I can barely stand without you.

Lifeless. Limp.

And I do not know if the stinging behind my eyes

Is a plea for sleep or a plea for you.

My eyes move down the shelf

Until they meet the floor.
Slowly moving.

As though they are analyzing their very

Next destination.

What will it cost me to look down?

There, the book you let me borrow.

My fingers trace across the cover

Fingers slide over the gloss

In the same way they slide down your cheek.

Or through your hair.

Or across your forearm

Slowly and hardly awake.

And I wonder if somehow the pages

May smell like you.

But I dare not answer my own

Silly questions.

It’ll hurt too much to be

Disappointed.

What is not you:

Haunted.

What I am:

Crying into a pillow.

Remembering every second
I have been allowed to keep.

Cursing and rejoicing

In memories that haunt me.
Flashes of us that lead me no

Closer to anywhere you are.

But instead keep me just barely breathing

Until the next time I can see you again.

Flash.

Breathe in.

Eyes close.

The tears disappear

Into corners.

Momentarily forgotten.

These pages are not creased over. 

Flash.

Reminder to let go, breathe out.

Eyes open.

Just a flash.

Tears appear, just as quickly.

What is not you:
Here.