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bianca Oct 13
i used to be picked up from school, my bedroom door closed behind me
threw my furry polka dot blanket in air, rearrange my room to imagine it right
taken home by elementary teacher

my bed nicely made, a hot shower running
i would sit down on warm tile floor, my swollen head leaned against tile
fingertips tracing the trickling water, placing my tears

heavy legs pulling me out of the tub, wrapping myself in a towel
comforting words falling out of my mouth, combing knotty brown hair
lying awake, flipped monkey over three times, whispered to myself

i walked home from school, my door closed behind me
threw my blanket in air, my naked body underneath,
hair combed, eyes shiny, getting ready

laptop propped against my knees, fingers typing meaningless words
hoping for someone to come save me, excitement running through my veins
the same username messaged me more than one night
cued for ‘affection’

rather the legs spread underneath my covers were all what kept one of many
staying up all night probing and prying for company
as long as someone’s fingers were inside of me was their idea of saving
and so my heavy legs would carry me back to the shower
swollen head against the covered teardrop wall
in hopes that my own mother
would come and save me.
bianca Sep 13
only rose quartz has kept us connected for so long
i miss him
bianca Jun 27
She abruptly turns out of the dimly lit restaurant. Even though the lights lay low everyone, can smell cigarette ashes hanging off of her. Her off-the-shoulder cream dress stuck to her body, the long dark blue scarf hanging around her neck is shriveled, her makeup smeared across her face. Being pushed into the long blue pool wasn't exactly the celebration she had expected for herself, but Carolina thought otherwise. So she is walking across the back-end restroom hall, hoping to slip past the banner room for a change of clothes. She is crying, her choked cries trying to bear the covers of her scarf, but; they cannot.

August emerges out of the wooden glass-paned doors, and he follows the loud, scruffy cries that nearly blend into the loud beaten music playing; he looks the long hallway to find her.

Meryl is sitting, her long legs crossed over one of the other, the sunken leather couch underneath. Her left arm is trying to cover her face while she cries, the other holding a cigarette. August breathes in a whiff of smoke and nearly coughs as loud as the music is playing.

Her head whips around like lightning, quickly standing up brushing herself, the cigarette dangling between her index fingers at her right side.

"I hope I'm not causing any trouble by not being there - I guess I just needed a quick one." she motions to her cigarette, but even though her voice is thick, he can sense what her eyes are saying.

"Oh no, not that. Sorry, I just well-heard cries, and I was coming off to see who it was, is all." August's hands slide into his pockets; they're practically sweating, but he's still staring into her dark brown eyes, and for whatever reason, he finds it hard to leave as he takes glances at her soaking wet clothes. Meryl takes notice of his nervous presence, perhaps almost seeing it as a game of her own.
first-hand draft of a story I am writing. thoughts?
bianca Jun 26
i am afraid if i let you go
then one day i will forget you
bianca Jun 14
she held the cigarette between her index finger as if she was pointing towards her next foreseeable victim, but shortly it was blown out, the remaining ashes lit at the end of her tip. her cardamom eyes simmered, square but foundational, a million could love her.
another excerpt from a story I am writing. what do you think?
bianca Jun 14
“Gayle Gayle Gayle” he hums underneath his breath which makes his lips move a little “Gayle, who made me lemon cookies?”
“Us, lemon cookies Dylan she made us lemon cookies but you always ate them first which by the way she’s expecting a thank you note from.” my lips are curving upwards. He smiles back.
“Oh, does she now?” putting my glass next to the empty bowl of blueberries “Can I see Gayle sometime?” I start to blush. He wants to come back to my house. The house hasn’t changed. It stands tall but the roof shingles are battered upfront, the sliding now a faded brown. You can see it has aged, from a distance you can see it has aged, Gayle has aged. The entranceway still smells of soft lemon. Lemon cookies on her favorite plate I had made when I was yellow. Cheap ceramic covered in painted makeshift tulips. He would see my sneakers against the entrance door, the white couch in the living room which is too nice for our own good, our small table covered in fabric from Gayle’s sewing while she watches the picture of my mom in front of her. The lake still stands wide and dark blue. We used to swim. Life jackets and boating. Gayle’s lemon cookies and battered shingles.
“You can see Gayle, but only if there’s a thank you note.” my cheeks are flushed. He knows what he’s doing and it’s not fair. Gayle is going to see him. Lemon cookies for Dylan.
an excerpt from a story that I am writing.
bianca Jan 10
I grew up in a white picket fenced house, half in between
women kept secrets hidden in their lips, throwing away the keys
where men oversee causing  bruises and batter

I ran where trailer plastered walls were peeling at the seams, home it could have possibly been
my father tried to keep his hands rough to wipe off the dirt on my skin, to keep his arms wrapped around me
but he could only do so much after barbecuing under overgrown peach trees and shopping for strawberry lip gloss at mall city
that now lays underneath piles of clothes, behind brown leather sofas, in a chipping bathtub with a bottle of Hennessy, he drowned himself in before the one hour commute to the city
followed by night terrors where he kicked and screamed about the family in the white picket fence dream

a hollow existence followed me in midnight internet schemes
where I thought love would be
only to find men calling from bruises to make more batter
and in a way, I became a woman of locked lips
who answered with her clothes off, her hair *******
in an attempt to make a new white picket fence dream,
half in between

— The End —