Echo Safety Glasses

On a numbing
December night
youthful joy
was reduced
to fragments of glass
and safety
on a hardwood floor.

She was always
only inches away,
may as well
have been miles.

Violence a familiar
theme echoing
reminding
whispering
haunting.
Becoming?

She came when
she could, called
taunted innocently
time to go.

December is
the coldest month.
Good for sweeping
glass
polishing the floor,
and adding
tinder to the fire.
Poppy is my poetry soul mate.

scars.....

.....will forever be there...


BUT.......

......we can always choose....

...to look at things in a different way......

2009-03-03 13:09:17 by Shelley

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I generally write poetry, but I've been wanting to get into prose for a while. This is my first attempt. It's still rather abstract... any comments/constructive criticism would be welcome. Eventually I'd like it to be a piece about self harm and moreover, how self harm effects relationships... I don't necessarily want to right a straight story, I want it to be more like a long, broken poem, something more stylised.
Each section is meant to represent a fragment of time in the story, the fragments aren't in order that the events happened... if that makes sense...

WIP

She fell, with exhaustion, into his arms: crumpled against him like a fallen leaf blown against a wire. Held there, in the safety of his embrace, relief unbound the fierceness of her emotion, which she had fought so long and so hard to hide.

…

It was dark inside her head. Her confusion made her feel dizzy, hot. Her eyes opened, slowly focussing on her surroundings, taking in the sight. Her room looked ransacked. Detritus littered the small floor space: cups, glasses, dirty washing, tissues, more tissues - all white and – red. She felt the uncomfortable trip of realisation, the sickening feeling in the deepest recess of her gut, pulling her backwards into the blackness.
…

He sat, pensively in the train station, eyes fixed on one spot, moving only to religiously check his watch, and then back to the same spot on the platform at his feet. It would be all right, he told himself; nothing much will have changed when she arrives, and whatever has changed, we can put it back. He was sick with nerves, or perhaps anticipation; he hadn’t seen her since, and only spoken to her on the phone once, briefly, so he had little idea what to expect when she stepped off the train, if she stepped off at all. It wouldn’t be improbable, for her not to show, for him to walk blindly away from the platform, frantic with worry - a mind alight with every possible reason for her non-appearance.

…

The light through the partly drawn curtains, painted a delicate pattern against the opposing wall, soft shards of light fell across her face and body. She lay still on the bed, covers thrown back, revealing her nakedness. Her skin was milky and soft, pale porcelain in the shadows; stripes of sparkling white where the sunlight played.

...

The light through the partly drawn curtains, threw a harsh glare against the opposing wall, piercing shards of light fell across her face and body. She lay lifeless on the bed, covers thrown back, revealing her naked, shivering form. Her right arm and both thighs were inflamed with cuts and tears, open wounds, bleeding, weeping, red, wet and glistening where the sunlight played.

...

He loved her, he had loved her since almost the moment that he met her. She'd been trouble from the beginning, but he'd accepted it. He'd seen her; her scars; her pain; her misbehaviour and he'd taken it all on. Now he regretted it; and yet he loved her still.

...

“How are you?”.
In the echoing, empty stillness, which followed his words, he studied her. She was still, pensive and dark, like a small, black bird. Tiny and fragile, whilst angry and strong. He tried to fight it, but he was so cross with her; all the selfishness.
“How are you?”
She flinched, noticeably, then her words came, flat and quiet.
“I'm, y'know, fine really. It's a fuss, y'know – about nothing”, she looked down, staring hard; focus boring a hole into the melamine.
“Is that it? That's all you've got to say?” he'd forgotten, lost sight, he didn't love her in that moment.
“No – well – I don't know what to say. Sorry? That's what you expect isn't it, but it's not me, I'm not sorry; I don't regret this”.
She waved her arm vaguely at him, gesturing the thick white bandage, encircling her arm.
There was silence.
“I'm sorry that I'm not sorry” she ventured.
“I'm sorry too” he didn't know what else to say.

When I first clicked on this, I have to admit, I was expecting the usual rubbish but you blew me away with this! If you were to produce a collection of short stories, or poetry, or even a novel I'm sure you'd find an audience. You'd certainly sell at least one copy. I hope you keep at it.

2008-11-11 14:36:51 by beetroot biscuit

Price: $140.00 $114.62