"hanger" poems
Borderline Personality Disorder.
1. The other day I woke up and thought I knew who I was
I fell asleep and somewhere in between I lost myself
I lost the feeling in my stomach too
but we're still talking about how much we have in common.
2. My sweater got stuck on the hanger this morning
I started to rip it down
eventually I broke plastic and skin.
I haven't been back in my room since.
3. 12:06 PM Today my best friend came home and took most of our makeup
12:07 PM I messaged her and mocked our friendship.
12:07 PM She was in trouble with her grandma and had to hurry. She didn't know.
12:08 PM I broke down crying.
4. I woke up at 7:32 AM and took 4 shots
drank 2 beers
smoked four bowls
drank half a bottle of NyQuil and woke up the next day.
I have yet to figure out why.
5. I wanted to be a horse trainer for 9 years
then I decided I wanted to be an artist
worked on becoming a tattoo artist
matured into a writer
fell in love with photography
now I'm not even sure if I like school.
6. First scars appeared at 9
worst scars at 15.
First attempt at 10
almost wasn't an attempt at 14.
7. I've been happy the past few days
but I still want to **** myself
because soon I'll be drowning in depression
and succumbing to anxiety.
9. Once I got so bored
I thought myself into sorrow.
I didn't come out for a few hours
but by dinner I was laughing.
10. I used to be in love with a boy
but I didn't know
so I used whatever I could get
and now I'm alone.
I don't blame him.
11. I've mentally lost myself
as I screamed into the mirror
and it wasn't me talking to myself.
I don't really remember being there
but I was.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
what's the point of buying a portrait if you are blind?
nothing i would see is worth my precious time—
just more metal, bad skin, and tired, jealous eyes
senseless sensibility is a cold kettle boiling,
nonsense steam fogs up the jaded glass.
draw a picture with your finger,
smile as it fades to apathy,
all that lovely water turned to gas.
i lick my palms to play pretend with illness,
stay in bed with the quilt kicked off-kilter,
crawling with the brood of the six-legged past;
they are eating the nests of the threatened, bitter future
change the cable channels in my brain,
but only stations two and five are clear,
and eight if a wire coat-hanger antenna
is bent at an angle from my dominant ear
so i can sit, content, and watch the weather
sneaking in exhaust from every orifice
gets me passed out stupid every time;
a coping mechanism,
coated **** between the gears,
and only this pollution left behind.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
I am an unwanted child of god
I am an unwanted child of god-
He said,
And I, (believing him)
examined his shapes closely.
Simple enough,
Is what would best describe him,
his feet were sheltered by rubbers
manufactured in some distant or exotic country
crafted by machines
in far away factories.
This unwanted child of god, this dark young man, child of father after father infinitum;
Gave me a look of terror and apathy at once, then spoke.
I think, sometimes, of acting out of character-
(his smile surprised me)
I put the gun in my mouth just to taste the cold iron-
I bring men to my hotel room, women too-
(his gap widened)
Who can say I am not the happiest ******* on the ******* planet-
'not me'
I'll drink to that-
Oh hoarse throat, oh smokey breath
Oh sad unwanted child of god
Whose mother did look upon the coat-hanger,
And whose father did look upon the belt;
I'll drink to you everyday,
For who is to say I'm not the happiest ******* on the ******* planet?
Hip and hip
hooray.
Next Sunday he pulled the trigger, and stained the Dull brown wall of his hotel room.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 7:11 PM UTC
You lurk in chat rooms talkin
bout what you'd like to do.
All naked accept for a captian's hat.
Ya know after hello it's probaly
not best to ask do you wanna *****
Mr pervert do you enjoy.
Taking trips to mexico maybe to take in a
show.
Getting beat with a wire hanger
being called a bad boy.
Were ya born with a ***** loose?
Did uncle Charlie get to friendly
and papa John slip something in your juice?
Do you really like farm hand dot com
thats just wrong.
No Mr pervert I dont wanna see pics of you
covered in oil wearing a thong.
And im really not into what ya can fit
up your ***
Glad to know what happend to that goon
at the back of the class.
No you cant have my number.
Okay your a woodman.
Please I really dont need any pics of
your lumber.
No I dont wanna wrestle in the dark you freak.
Yes im happy you enjoy being beat every
other day of the week.
You really need some help.
Yes I think to catch a preditor would be a
great show for you to make a appearence.
No I dont wanna play airlane.
so ***** your clearence.
Please why cant that connection to
your basement just go out.
Guess what your doing now.
Well to be honest I know without a single
doubt.
I can imagine what its like to be you.
well ***** that cause theres some ****
so freaky even I wont do.
So when ya see that name appear
on the screen it's probaly best to ignor.
I mean unless your really into hanging out
with a lathred up nut who eats outta
a dog dish apon the floor.
I was flipping through the channels
and to no suprize what did I see.
why dateline with Chris Hanson and
Mr pervert on my t.v.
I had to laugh at every word said.
Gooodbye Mr pervert.
Didnt take a geinus to figure out
you were ****** up in the head.
Feb 17, 2010
Feb 17, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to sleep in a bed with no sheets in the corner of an empty airline hanger.
Eating ***** is oblivion to millions,
regardless of politics.
I don't cry when I watch the evening news.
Pictures from my 4th birthday party,
when I turned 3,
make me cry...
...for 1 spermatozoa.
When my co-creators' closed eyelids told me my grandfather had finally passed,
I remembered that I forgot how to make Mac & Cheese.
Time runs on batteries.
But when machines grow to match us,
they will one day pass a law against the consumption of sentient planets.
Still,
some will do it anyway.
And even if they have televisions in space,
I still won't cry.
Because we are all machines.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
You are smooth against my skin.
Your surface is cool and inviting
As it wraps around my torso-
Like a protective blanket
You are my security,
Blue pleather bomber jacket.
I pick at your skin and it falls apart.
The zipper, like your bottom teeth,
Are crooked and misaligned.
You shrug over my shoulders,
But leave my chest defenseless.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
I bet you cost a fortune.
Almost as much as your nonprescription glasses,
Though you break just the same
Like the promises you keep making.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
You never kept me warm
Just less affected by the
cutting winds of your back lash.
But when I fall asleep at night
I sleep beside the indent of your absence.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
You are just now brand new,
Though your skin is already worn through
And your lining thinning by the second.
I trusted you,
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
To protect me from the cold.
Though you slump lazily
Over others' shoulders,
Not really caring I've been waiting
With my shoulders bare and frigid.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
I thought you were one of kind.
But I see your manufactured gaze
Walking down the street,
Sitting across from me on the bus.
Go on, blue pleather bomber jacket,
Temporarily dangling over person after person.
Soon I will see you dangling
On the rotting hanger in a thrift shop,
Years from now looking preserved in your waning beauty.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
Your trend is dying and your color fading.
I have been snagged by your imperfections for the last time.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
it's all occupied with dark fumes of flatulence
the bus hanger
it's teething and earning a low ceilinged thrive
regularly cleaned the roof portal
with a large drooping eye
brags of blue sky
the coaches are idling
fretful to be burdened and go
elsewhere
the public urinals
there's a strong smell of iron
are the morning users dehydrated
malnourished or ill ?
i feel a little flated
elsewhere
in the waiting area
a neatly turned out teen
wants to give their seat to the infirm
does not and hurts inside averting
(a public act of courtesy
would after all be an embarrassing one)
attention back to the importance
my friend has ungreeted me
i have wished him ease
and he has passed between the cordons
amongst amiable cattle
he pauses at the authorities verification
who in turn
tails them to load up their luggage
and become their driver
- goodbye my friend
Feb 7, 2024
Feb 7, 2024 at 5:57 PM UTC
I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.
Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.
I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.
I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
BECAUSE there is safety in derision
I talked about an apparition,
I took no trouble to convince,
Or seem plausible to a man of sense.
Distrustful of thar popular eye
Whether it be bold or sly.
Fifteen apparitions have I seen;
The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.
I have found nothing half so good
As my long-planned half solitude,
Where I can sit up half the night
With some friend that has the wit
Not to allow his looks to tell
When I am unintelligible.
Fifteen apparitions have I seen;
The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.
When a man grows old his joy
Grows more deep day after day,
His empty heart is full at length,
But he has need of all that strength
Because of the increasing Night
That opens her mystery and fright.
Fifteen apparitions have I seen;
The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.
3.2k
Who should desire
A clear mirror
Of perfect likeness
Lies hideous fear
Look, see what we see
Sad doppelganger
Ethereal clone
Leaning, wall hanger
All flaws magnified
Every evil, too
Simplify ev’ry line
Ever mistake – rue
A mirror well smudged
Truly desired
The traits that are so
Nobly admired
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Plot a course through downtown doors
then drift along the concrete shores
of asphalt oceans navigated
under stars
imitating
broken curbside glass--
over crunching gravel miles
measured in half-hours
and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths
and squinting, midnight eyes...
Counted out the blocks, counted steps
and concrete squares by metered
three-four thoughts dancing across
reflected skylines, just behind the eyes.
Each step's a held breath,
each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper,
each set of shoulders, a hanger for...
coats are homes
for hands
rolling up in pockets
fishing for some solid anchor,
sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.
*** * ***
Listing hard, adrift for years
water-logged and pocked--
no anchor--
shredded sails and leaning masts
tell stories
of deck fires:
leaping rats,
and charred strakes
Clear deck,
empty hold,
abandoned helm.
this coat's Atlantic fog.
Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch
down and across
like lines on faces aged by the frost
on midnight walks.
Strike the colors, mate...
Admit you're lost.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Persona of void
Snippets taken from a cluster of characters
This is who you are
A collage of people
Devoid of Self
Like a stone covered in moss
You are consumed
An empty coat hanger
Ready to be draped in any garment
But no matter which face you decide to wear
Nothing seems to fit just right
And the mask you sport
Somehow always tends to slip
May 19, 2022
May 19, 2022 at 1:50 PM UTC
Sophia sorts through
her parents' room;
they're out for the day,
some Polish old comrades
meeting of her father's,
old war pals. She opens up
the old wardrobe, sorts
through things, takes out
her mother's old dresses
and some new ones, puts
them on the bed. She likes
a red one, old but well kept.
She ponders, she decides
to try it on. She undresses
from her own jeans and top
and puts on the old red dress
and looks at herself in the
wardrobe mirror. Her mother
must have been her size back
then, it fits like it was made
for her. She does a twirl, looks
back at her *** her thighs,
turns to the front and stares
at her ******* She doesn't
remember her mother wearing
the dress, not a dress she recalls
her mother wearing at all. She
looks down, it comes just below
the knees, although she's taller
than her mother, so it would
come lower on her mother.
She embraces herself as if
Benedict were there behind her
putting his arms around her
and breathing on her neck.
She stares at herself in the mirror;
stares at her full length. She
smells the material. It smells
of stale perfume, but not horrible
or clammy. She walks around
the room in it; looks at herself
in the mirror across the room.
She'd ask her mother if she could
borrow it, but then she'd have to
say she'd been in her mother's wardrobe
and that would cause hell with her
father and she didn't want that. She
take off the dress and stands there
in her bra and ******* and puts the
dress back on the hanger, and puts
it back with the other dresses where
she found it the wardrobe, in the right
place, and pushes the clothes back as
far as shes can recall in the order they
were, and closes the wardrobe door.
She dresses back in her jeans and top.
She pauses by the bed. The crucifix over
the bed. The Crucified staring down
pityingly. She touches the bed with her
fingers. She'd like to bring Benedict here;
make love here. But not after last time
in her room and her parents came back
after and that was too close. And some
neighbour had split on her and said
they'd seen young man and her come
here while her parents were out and her
father gave her the third degree over it.
Her father said she can only bring the
boy when they were home. Couldn't bring
Benedict back for *** while they were
downstairs sitting watching TV and
drinking their wine and such, and not
in her parent's bed, not beneath the
Crucified, except in her blonde haired head.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
My sisters are an hour fifteen late
And I've been shopping for coats so long
That I'm starting to measure the worth of my weight in their wool
I feel your rejection surround me when the L doesn't fit just right
So I throw it back on the hanger and try not to look at myself in the dressing room light
I sit down on the bench half defeated
I found a grey one I like
Fits me perfect and I look good
Until I turn to the side
But I'll take it cause its classy and nice
I can feel their stares on me as they walk by
So I stop looking at my phone long enough to catch their eye
Let them know their judgement hasn't gone unseen
Cause I can sense what they're thinking
Or maybe call it paranoia
But when your co worker calls you beautiful
And the lady waiting on her paint
Pulls a card out her purse and says, "Beautiful but not healthy. I can help you lose weight"
And you stand there with your mouth gaped
Because this was the icing on top of your **** cake
Cause this week your man cheated on you
But showed no remorse
And a stranger woman saw you
As a product to endorse
And it took fifteen coats
Just to feel alright
After pulling at your fat in the fluorescent light
And the woman picking out the flannel pants
Made you think of last Christmas, placing them in his hands
And the music above your head
Held no holiday cheer
Just another reminder that you're ending this year... alone
And you forget to remember he has a new home
And you spent a split second wondering if he wished he were here
And you know why he doesn't when you look in the mirror
So I pick myself up
With my coat in my arms
Walk behind my sisters having a conversation of their own
I'm mostly invisible but that's the way we've grown
Laugh a few times, lay thick on the charm
Because they don't have time for **** weeks or broken hearts
When somehow holding it together feels a lot like falling apart.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
Was so fragile-
She could be cut by callused palms.
Could be bruised-
With the stroke of her makeup brush.
Lays so sound-
She could wake up to the car door slamming in the garage.
She is so thin-
Light shines not just through her eyes-
But through her chest, hips, lips, and-
No warmth is transferred through her kiss.
She breaks like hardened mud.
You could sink into her like quicksand.
Her body, is built like a storm.
You can watch the blood in her veins-
Meet your fingers at the surface-
You can still see what you have drawn in the morning-
If you can even crawl out of bed to crack the blinds.
She likes thunderstorms.
She likes the smell of dirt.
Her eyes were gray-
And her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth.
She can dance in the sun-
clumsily-
And still be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
She could sing-
Off key-
But her emotion is what makes those notes gold.
She lays like stone.
She moves like running glass fast forwarded.
Her voice is thunder-
And her eyes are the winter.
She lays hands on you-
Only to heal.
She can mend you-
as easy as bending a wire coat hanger.
Her skeleton is like flint-
How it sparks against mine.
Her body is so fragile-
A word could hurt her.
and a stick or stone-
would certainly **** her.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.
They always remind me of how his eyes are as green as a Christmas tree
or how his hair fell onto his face like a shadow
or that when he blinked his lashes resembled butterfly wings
or that his smile was similar to a crooked coat hanger.
They never mentioned
how his fingers were long and shaky like branches in the wind
or how his shoulders hunched over like a good game of jenga
or how the curve from his chest to his torso was as steep as a hill
or that when I found the bruises on his stomach,
they were like ink splotches all over a beautiful poem.
They left out that his dad hit him like a train
or that his mom lived in the house like it was a bar
or that it would hurt like 16 bee stings
when I saw a line of 16 scars on his left bicep
or that the gasps in between his cries would sound like drowning
or that his eyes can ombre to be as red as an egyptian sunset.
They never warned me that he would come crashing down like an avalanche
or how his constant expression depicted a shattered stain glass window-
every piece beautiful but still apart.
They could've said that reading the headline
"local boy commits suicide"
would numb me like paralysis
or that hearing his last words would echo in my head like screaming in a cave
or that his funeral I would say
"loosing him was like an overcast of rain"
except I lied,
because losing him was like a flood
and that his grave stood out like a redwood tree carved of stone
or how his dad looked at his own hands like looking at maggots.
Love poems never said that I would miss him like being homesick
or that the drive to the cemetery would feel like skyrocketing to the moon
or that I would refuse to play jenga with my little cousins
or how I would hate hanging my clothes without seeing his smile.
The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Christmas is upon the masses
The white flakes fall, but
Hanging
Swaying,
Dripping
Upon the crisp white
A puddle frozen of crimson red,
Baubles of the deceased
Upon a branch, eyes bleed
Baubles,
Red,
Sightless
Eyes, cracked within, as blood
Drips between the cracks,
He hangs them with tinsel rope
Glistening in the sun,
Inscribed,
"Merry Christmas"
Still fresh from the cut
Blood like a leaking tap
Drip,
Drip,
Drips
Upon pristine snow,
"He is the tinsel hanger"
He waits until the white covers
Then he begins his
Christmas list,
He thinks them naughty in is eyes
So they now sway above the ground,
There is not always one,
For what is a tree with but
One
Bauble
Hanging,
More must adorn a single tree,
"Happy Christmas"
"Died Smiling"
"Jolly Dead"
Were his trademarks upon dead flesh,
Birds perch upon limp shoulders
Pecking, upon the dead,
The last things heard,
As he records his crime,
*"Please don't **** us"*
"Have a heart"
"A heart"
"A HEART"
Pleeeasss....
And then there is but muffled sound
"Thump"
Lifelessness now upon the ground,
Another Bauble
For him to hang with tinsel
Above the freshly powdered ground,
He is the Tinsel hanger
He thinks the white gives purity
To his twisted deeds
Pray* that your not just left
A Christmas bauble,
Hanging,
Swaying,
Lifeless
Above freshly white snow, because
You'll not be alone this cold night,
Family will also be hanging around, tinsel shimmering off moonlight.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
I got complete love for all you jiggas
But I'm trying to hurt, slay and ****** all you jiggas
It's not that I'm a militant mind
I just know competition can either enhance your strive or leave you to die!
Who am I?
Maybe the greatest untold story...the one that focused on pain but zoomed out on all my glory
Shut up!
Take another sip of your ego and chase that muthafucker down with a full glass of all of your evil
And call ya boy up
I think his name was kaneval
Separate all your selfishness
Hand out your blessing and see if you and god can finally become equal
I can't take ya
But I can't leave ya
I just feel at times I'm suffocating so I use your energy to break ya!
Remember that I'm unheard of
Rarely do ya listen
A woman still says a man AIN'T ****
THAN TURNS AROUND TO HER FRIEND AND WHISPERS..."love is what my heart is missing"
Are serious?
Manipulation got ya dreary *** minds all curious? So you grab the wheel and suddenly you in control?
She was the one who traded in her pride, self respect and worth all for a false story to be told
then you went home with him
got a bedtime story told from him
now it's your bitterness that's not working out like fitness that creates a beautiful smile to turn sour and grim.
You probably wondering "what **** got Dougy so mad?"(DJbreak)
BREAK THAT!
It's D-O-U-G-I-E
but I'm sure that was my bad...
cause ya can't take responsibility for your daily mistakes
PAC gave me the vice, told me to apply pressure and see how much you weaklings can take!
Anger formed from danger has me dressed in devils wear prada as I put my "heroes" on a hanger and allow them to see me as a modern day king, walk amongst all these strangers
Hit em with a look only to leave the ordinary shook and read the options in they life like they illustrated a personal book
Then go and send false advice
knowing it wasn't right
You stupid muthafuckers!
Domestication still is untamed and has all the ability too bite!
Hold on for the fight
or throw in the towel!
A Evil Intention Overwhelms U!
I dare ya to pick one of my vowels!!!!
....tell Kendrick I'm a monster
He can take cali
THE WHOLE WORLD IM PREPARED TO CONQUER!
-Dougie Simps
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
I am a wire hanger
bean pole
drape me with your cotton
inspire me with spandex.
copper wire
sewing needle
clothing is no coverage.
what the hell is modesty
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood:
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare:
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Uricon.
2.4k
I lumber sluggishly,
dragging the weight of my body.
Every pound is tethered to me,
I can’t escape the heaviness.
I am stuffed into clothes,
encased in figure-hugging fabric
that looks better on the hanger
than my rounded, fleshy torso.
The scale is an unlucky lottery ticket
displaying a number
that I will carry around
shamefully like a scarlet letter.
I count calories like beads on a rosary,
making sure I shrink to conformity
critical of every extra curve
because to love my size is a societal sin.
Airbrushed beauty queens
and slender starlets
wear their size 0 like a badge of honor
in the battlefront of glossy magazine covers.
I’m crushed with the weight of the world I inhabit
a place that teaches girls to be self-conscious
of each pound that sticks to their body
instead of teaching them to be confident in their own skin.
I’m tired of micromanaging each nutrient that touches my lips,
to achieve a slender frame that resists my big-boned body
self love is not a one-size-fits-all
and I will radically adore every ounce that is tethered to me.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
You saw only
A vulnerable part of me
Full of tenderness and mischief
All wrapped up in high-pitched
Giddy laughter.
I touched your growing beard
With stories of office happenings
And little rants of hanger and stress
As your empty arms kept me close and warm.
Then you held my hand goodbye.
Boy, you only saw a snippet of me
The tropical islands I came from
And reasons why I love my family.
Done.
My empowered heart has moved on.
And I am so grateful
Because you will never know my dreams.
No.
You no longer deserve my smiles
And will never again hear my giggling.
Hold on to the memory of me
Or who you think I may be.
That's all you'll ever have
A hazy visage
And never all of me.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Unknowing, unaware.
Doesn't see, so it doesn't care.
Hanging up - Just like the bones,
Limp and lifeless and no one knows.
By the neck, the hanger holds;
Touched by the dark and growing cold.
The beauty gone, the color faded;
The fight is over, the survivor gave in.
Cursed by the mind, tainted by darkness,
Victim of everything, eyes dull and spark-less.
Nothing left, the coffin closes.
The door shuts early
On the Pink Sweater's Closet.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
Lizbeth stood in front
of the tall mirror
inside her mother's wardrobe
she was wearing
a short black dress
her hair was tied
in a bun at the back
I stood watching her
uncertain why
we were in her parents' bedroom
and why she was *********
her mother’s clothes
hanging on hangers inside
I looked around the room
a big bed made tidily
a chest of drawers
a built in cupboard
a picture on the wall
opposite the bed
of some country scene
and above the bed
a huge crucifix
made from wood
with a plaster Christ
look at this one
Lizbeth said
I looked at her hand
taking out a long red dress
she held it up
then put in front of herself
and turned to face me
what do you think?
it's a bit gaudy
I said
shall I try it on?
no I can see
what it would
look like on you
I said
she sniffed it
she must bathe
in **** scent
Lizbeth said
she did a spin
holding the dress
against her
how do I look in it?
she's taller than you
it'll fit her better
I said
not so sure
Lizbeth said
hold this
I held the dress in my hand
she unzipped her black dress
at the back
and pulled the black dress
over her head
and stood there
in a white bra and *******
give it here
she said
and taking the dress
she put it on
her own black dress
was on the floor
here zip me up
at the back
she said
I zipped her up
at the back
watching the straps
of the white bra disappear
as I zipped her up
she turned on the spot
and looked at herself
in the tall mirror
well? how do I look now?
well at least
it's longer
than your own black dress
I said
it came to her ankles
she looked down at it
yes too ****** long
she said
unzip me Benny
she said
I unzipped her
seeing the strap
of the white bra
come back into view
she pulled the dress
over her head
and put it back
on the hanger
she stood there
in bra and *******
how do I look now?
undressed
I said
do you like me
like this?
I feel kind of
uncomfortable
you standing like that
I said
why do you feel
uncomfortable?
what if your parents
come home now
and see you like this
and me here with you
and you in your underclothes?
she smiled
guess they'll feel
uncomfortable then
she said
I picked up her black dress
best out it on
I said
now?
yes now
my parent's bed is over there
all made up and fresh
and waiting for us
she said sexily
I stood holding
the black dress in my hand
where are your parents?
out some place
when will they be back?
don't know
best get your dress on
and out of their room
I said
what about my room?
the bed's smaller
and unmade
and the room's untidy
but we can still
do it there?
I heard voices from downstairs
is that them back?
I said in a low voice
Lizbeth pulled a face
**** me yes
let's get to my room
and so she put
the red dress back
in the wardrobe
and shut it up
and we rushed across
the landing to her room
and shut the door
behind us
I looked around her room
it was as she said
untidy
the bed unmade
books
LPs
soiled washing
over the floor
and the curtains unopened
that was kind of close
she said
yes
I said
downstairs the voices
were loud
and a row seemed
to be going on
but Lizbeth seemed unconcerned
standing there
in her white *******
and bra
holding the black dress
gazing towards
the unmade bed
but I had other problems
swimming around
inside my teenage head.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
(Written in 8th Grade)
As I grew up along-side of memories, I realized that my name grew with me; shaping and morphing itself into who I am today. But wouldn’t it be fun to not be me for a single day? Not have the name, Alice? I could be someone smiling bright, maybe Melina. Or might I try on the name Jessie. Nah, too laid back and chill; so I take the name off and put it back on it’s hanger. I could be haughty and proud, with my nose in the air; I could be a Penelope. I window-shop for more names, browsing among all the different personalities. Fern seems fun, friendly and cordial. Or I might stick around and act as a Sam. Boyish? Aw yeah. Just maybe not for me. I’ll be Stella, all book-sharp for a day or I could be a Chloé, exotic and beautiful. Or switch my style into the retro girly Natalie. What would it be, to have the name Katie, just for a day? Zoey, Liana, Stacy, Diane. Isabelle, Marilyn, Delia, Hannah. Maybe give my name an exotic twist, Alyssa? After trying on names of all kind, some just weren’t for me. Too ‘krazy’? Shy? Ecstatic? Cool? Like a huge circus parade with different costumes, the loud gaudy colors blinding me. Like all the different shoes at Aldo’s; sky-high heels, wedges, sandals, boots. I slip out the shoes, I peel off the names. Because for now, I’d like to stay in my own skin; as a plain old Alice.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC