Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Fin de partie Jan 2014
I am the filth of my mother's womb.
I am the earth beneath my brother's tomb.
I'd rather drink from the cup that had your blood
than the clean white one outside by the fountain.

I am a dark spot on the clearest piece of cloth. I am
the dark that kills the day. I am the dark that hides
my mother's blood. I am the dark that swallows you
entirely. I am the dark that swallows light.

I am a black hole.

I am the black hole that swallows myself. I am
the black hole that presses on your wounds until
the blood comes gushing out and into my mouth.
Gushing and gulping.

I am the knife that cuts you into pieces. I am the
***** that digs into the earth for holes that will
contain my brother. I build my brother's tomb
and I fill it with the filth from my mother's womb.
Fin de partie Jan 2014
From the fourth floor of my nineteen-story house, I peek out of the tinted windows. These are my only windows to whatever is outside, and they're tinted yellow and black. I am the first person on the moon. I am the first person on the edge of the planet. Will I fall off, or am I bold enough to carry on?

That, I think, is what has been bothering me for so long. I do not live in a nineteen-story house and neither am I peeking through yellow-and-black windows. No, these colors do not have any significance either. They are not symbols or metaphors. I have been making everything up as I hammer my fingers onto the keyboard and weave these unfathomable lines of thoughts. I am not the first person on the moon. I am not the first person on the edge of the planet. In fact, there isn't even an edge. I am an insignificant speck of dust. I am not even Horton's Who.

I just counted the number of 'I's in the first two paragraphs- fifteen. Fifteen of the same alphabet repeated throughout. That is, despite whatever you might say, a bad start to an essay (if you'd call this one). "Of course not, repetition is an important literary device!", you might say. Horseshit, I say. These words have no intrinsic meaning. These horribly structured sentences are disgustingly unfathomable. That's the second time I've said 'unfathomable'. Third. My 9-year old sister writes better than I do: "Today, I woke up. Today, I ate breakfast. Today, I horsed around with my dog. I am very happy. I am not hungry, because I ate today. Today, I ate." You can understand what she's saying- she woke up, she ate, she's not hungry, and she's happy. But what of me? I woke up, but just so. I ate and so I'm not hungry, but just so. I am happy, and yet I am not. These words that I write mean nothing to me, and yet they mean everything. Being the extreme nihilist that I am, life has no intrinsic meaning, and yet it is more meaningful than a poem that I once wrote about my tenth-grade crush. I've forgotten her name long since. The most absurd of all is that it hasn't been so long- perhaps a year. What is more absurd than the most absurd is that I am yet to turn sixteen; this I will do in a month's time- yet what is most absurd about the more absurd than the most absurd is the incongruity of the facts with reality. I shall not elaborate on this, for it has become nothing less of a meaningless telephone message constructed at the time of a drunken stupor.
Fin de partie Jan 2014
I gave birth to my mother yesterday.

There she is- running around,
laughing about- dead dolls in
hand, yellow hairbands and
blue tees.

Perhaps she was not mine to
give birth to- perhaps I was

I had painkillers for breakfast.
To-night, I dine on my mother's

I dined on whispers yester-night.
To-night, I write the stories.

— The End —