Write My Own

(First of all, my apologies to the internet. I have absolutely no creative writing training, and I didn't even begin to revise this. The rhyme and meter are pretty painful. Anyhow, may I present...)

I'll Write My Own Goddamn Poem

by Marie

The loss of the dream leaves nothing the same.

-Langston Hughes

16 months of history, 12 days later.

I'm okay, 'though I've felt better.
I just have the urge to hear your voice,
even if I know we made the right choice.

I broke my own heart, too, you know.

Last year I needed to take it slow.

This time we had no choice - 3 years!

Plenty of time, right, to conquer our fears.

I had you and you were everything;

I'd already plugged you into my dream.

You were nervous but you didn't complain -

I never considered you might not be game.

Kids, piano lessons, soccer practice, picket fence;

I couldn't wait for all that with my prince.

I love you and I know my dream was twofold:

to have kids, and have you, to have and to hold.

You were unsure, but so what, we had time

(not that my "plan" was that you'd change your mind...)

Easily avoided, but then not anymore;

you saw me with kids and you knew I'd want more.

I saw you see me and my hope disappeared.

You just don't want that, it was instantly clear.

Impasse achieved, what choice could we make?

Forsaking a dream would be a mistake.

Such different priorities cannot align,

yet I still want to think that you'll always be mine.

Fiction

Her dream.

His tweet: "...plus I'm in love with someone else."
Her phone call: "Who?"
Scene from a movie, happy ending.

hard to believe that you're still around, almost forgot how you let me down

Choose your own adventure!

Scene:
Interior small-but-well-decorated apartment, bathroom. A 20-something woman has just gotten out of the shower and is drying herself. The doorbell rings.

Exposition:
That's odd, she thinks to herself. I wasn't expecting company, and I haven't ordered a package. For the first moment she ignores the interruption, but then curiosity overcomes her. She opens the bathroom door and creeps to the peephole in the front door. Outside stands a man with a very large package.

Time to choose your own adventure!
If she hollers "just a minute!" and scrambles for a bathrobe, continue to paragraph A.
If she opens the door dripping wet, partially covered by her towel, continue to paragraph B.

A:
"Just a minute!" she shouts, even though he's two feet away from her and the door is not thick. He acknowledges, and she drops her towel and hurriedly replaces it with her cozy pink bathrobe. She cracks the door and peers out. He is embarrassed to find her in this state and bashfully asks, "Do you know the people who live in this apartment?", gesturing to the door behind him. She's never met the neighbors, but he asks if he can leave the package with her. Either at the prospect of letting a strange man into the apartment while she's only barely clothed, or because she really has no desire to interact with the neighbors, she demurs. "I'm sorry, I'd rather not. Could you take it to the office?" He takes no offense, but looks disappointed...at the prospect of transporting his package back down the stairs, surely.

B:
Securing the knot in her towel, she opens the door. The delivery man gives her a once-over, taking in her bare legs and shoulders, but remains firmly in control of the situation. "Excuse me, miss. I need you to sign for this package." He hands her the tablet and she sizes him up. "What are you going to do with that package?" "Well, miss, I need to move it into your apartment." "It looks pretty large. Do you need some help handling it?" "Don't worry, miss, I am fully capable of handling this package. Just tell me where you want it." She steps back and leads him to her bedroom, feeling her towel loosen around her chest as she takes each step. Barely clutching at the thin fabric, she tells him, "I want your package right here." "Well, miss, I can certainly arrange for that..."

Global Warming

December: 65 degrees and swinging,
curls tangling across my face.
The radio proclaims, your love is my drug
It could almost be summer
if only it was summer

summer

last summer

I'll rebuild the bridge years later
but that doesn't change last summer:
carefree, mindless
not my finest hour
but so
so

happy






_____________
(NB: i'm not actually particularly emo. just striving for creativity. i wish i'd taken a creative writing class at some point [how did i not???]; i feel like my writing might be more viable if i had.)

Bathroom mirror

She stares herself down. Cheeks flushed from drinking. Hair loosely pulled back, tendrils curling behind her ears. T-shirt clinging in all the right places. Lips full and fresh and not pointed upward. Eyes so beautiful but so, so sad. "I'm so pretty," she thinks. "Shouldn't there be someone to appreciate it?"

She'd given up on her first love out of a vague feeling of it not being "right." She had yet to stop feeling regret for her choice. How vain is it to decide another person's life without even providing a reason?

She acknowledges that she is probably overreacting. The relationship hadn't even lasted the summer; how could it be a Big Deal? It's sad when a 3-year relationship ends, but 3 months? It's not supposed to be the end of the world.

She blinks, the thick outlines of her eyes jumping back into place. She hadn't meant to fall in love until it was right - the person she would spend the rest of her life with. What can she trust if her own judgment will so quickly fail her?

She bites her lip, hand on the doorknob. One last searching gaze yields no further answers.