Comments Posted By a terrible poet

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I knelt on the floor, running my fingers over row after row of DVDs. “Whaddaya wanna watch?” I called, on reflex, to the man draped on the couch behind me.

“Seriously,” he said, because he had not five seconds ago told me to make the choice for him.

I rolled my eyes, sighing to myself at the grim reality of decision-making, and leaned in with renewed determination. What was I in the mood for? “Something /gory/,” I muttered aloud.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.30.2015 @ 2:25 am


“Please,” I muttered, staring at the ground. I was on my hands and knees, could only see his feet, and a little voice in my head whispered that I was being stupid, that I looked like and idiot. “I deserve to be punished.”

I couldn’t see it, but I could feel my superior tilting his head – something in his stature, his footing. I half hoped that he would reassure me, tell me, yes, I was being silly. But instead —

“Yes. You do. We execute you tomorrow.”

My throat got clogged up with tears and I couldn’t speak.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.24.2015 @ 3:04 pm


The windscreen was cracked. The crack was small, roughly the size of a dandelion, and flower-shaped, too – spreading out from a single point, like something had been thrown at the glass once upon a time.

“What happened?” I asked the used-car-dealer, putting my eye up to it like a telescope.

“Hell’f I know,” he responded, and although I doubted the story was interesting, I felt mildly dismayed at the fact that I would never find out.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.23.2015 @ 4:29 am


The room was clean, medically sterile – the only hints of colour seemed red-on-white, too bright and artificial to be real. It certainly seemed to contrast with myself, blood seeping through the cracks in the mud coating my skin. It seemed even more to contrast with what had just happened – like a bomb going off, everything going wrong in just a couple of moments. Now, I was just sitting in the waiting room, too shaken to do more than wonder — if the other patients were staring, how the hell she could have done that to me.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.21.2015 @ 7:46 pm


I adjust my coat, peering at myself in the mirror as if I were the one person on the hiking trail who had bright pink hair. It has been so long since I’ve had to act the gentleman, I’m not entirely sure that I can do it any more, and waves of nervousness were rolling in my belly in a way they never had before. At least, not when I was wearing a suit – I recognised it as the way I had felt when I had first had to start letting go. The pains of adjustment.

Although, to be honest, I’m still tempted to just say ‘f–k it’ and wear a skirt. A bright orange one. See what they think of that, eh?

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.29.2014 @ 3:47 pm


The grove seemed altogether less defined than I would have imagined a ‘grove’ being. A grove, after all, sounded like a single object – like a hard pill of plants, six or seven trees so close together that they looked to be one, that I would have had to struggle through the undergrowth to find my way. This didn’t look like that at all. It was more just… a smattering. A smattering of trees.

It stepped closer to it, tilting my head curiously.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.21.2014 @ 6:13 pm


“Go on!” The man cried. I glanced back to look at him, perched unsteadily on the brink of the ship, through the sheets of rain, before looking back on the rocks. I hauled myself onto one of the sharp columns, blood dripping from my hands and mingling with the water. The rope trailed behind me, swung by the wind just as I was. If only I could find a steadfast place to secure it, perhaps everyone else could climb down along it.

At the moment, though, I heavily resented being the best swimmer on crew.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.19.2014 @ 8:01 pm


It was cyclical. Thought to action to thought to attempt to break the cycle to failure to thought. He was just like this, he knew. If this wasn’t how it was meant to be, then why should it be so hard not to follow his imperative? Why should he be the only one that had to fight this every second of every day? What made him so special that the *world itself* tried to hold him back with thoughts of death?

The answer had to be: nothing. It wasn’t ‘holding him back’, he was holding himself back. By not giving in.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.18.2014 @ 3:02 pm


I’m not attuned to anything right now. I’m disconnected. I don’t know what to write, and I can’t reach the part of me that does. I can’t see, but that must mean there is quite a great gap between all of my pieces.

I pat my stomach, my skin, check that I am all there and all here.

I seem to be so. But, hey, size is relative, and most of an atom is void. The gap between nucleus and electrons might as well be the English Channel, and me with no damn swimming experience.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.18.2014 @ 12:54 am


I felt my step falter. I had been moving evenly – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left, right, left, left. I glanced back at my followers, at my friends, and their eyes went a little bit questioning, as if they hadn’t noticed a thing, and they were wondering why I looked at them so alarmingly. But was that it? Was it really?

I shrugged, turned back, and kept walking.

I was their leader. I couldn’t be weak. No matter what.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.16.2014 @ 7:44 pm


I disliked his style of programming.

There was no /elegance/ to it; I would look over the code he was collaborating, and sure, he would fix the issues that I had described. But he would do it in a way that wasn’t clever, that wasn’t tidy, that I just couldn’t let remain in the final product.

And then I would see *him* peering at me in distaste as I rewrote every line of what he had done in my own finicky way – ‘why can’t you just let it be?’ I imagined him thinking. But he only thought that because he was such an idiot.

“You know,” he spoke up, “we have a deadline.”

“Yes,” I said, “and when it rolls around, I am *not* going to hand in a piece of kludged garbage.”

“If you keep this up, we might not have anything to hand in at all.”

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.15.2014 @ 2:49 pm


The creature was greedy, I thought. It sounded like a stereotype, but it was true – the dragon, hatchling as it was, had gathered up piles of bottle caps, those silly activist brooches I could not help but accrue, and bits of scattered yarn that I heartily suspected came from some of my favourite shirts. I would need to set aside more space for it, I thought, if it was going to keep stealing things.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.13.2014 @ 7:43 pm


I stood there, stoicly unamused at his antics. Honestly, I projected, what did he think? That he was *funny*? There was no way in seventeen theoretical dimensions he was ever going to make a theatre audience laugh with this sort of…

I giggled.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.12.2014 @ 3:18 pm


I never was one for necklaces. I would look at them, think ‘my god, that’s pretty’. Sometimes I would buy them, although I had stopped doing so a while ago (it cost too much money) because I would never, ever wear them. I might hook them around my neck, but then I would consider for a moment, and take them off again. It didn’t seem sensible to wear them.

But this locket, I could not let go of. Although I could not wear it, my hands would tangle in the chain and twist the heart-shaped pendant and open and close it again and again. My hands were always occupied with it, and it sat on my bedside table when I slept. For some reason, I could not let go, any more than I could let go of the person who could give it to me.

Why? I had let go of everything, everyone else.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.11.2014 @ 8:46 pm


“Okay, and what should the gesture for ‘no’ be?” I grinned at her, the two of us curled awkwardly in a corner. It was not out of sight, precisely, but the walls were in shadow enough to blend in with our skin and the dirt dusting our clothes. Whenever someone walked by, we would freeze, casual muttering turning to whispers, our lips barely moving.

We should have been more noticeable than we were, but people saw what they expected to. And so, we were not caught, and I was not whipped for spending time with her.

It was good I had managed to find this spot. I had not seen her since I had first been caught kissing another girl.

“Pout,” she suggested.

“Pout,” I said, “and blink twice for confirmation. Could just be a depressing thought.”


The bell rang, and I stood up as if I had never noticed her. ‘3:30 pm’, I gestured, pointing with two fingers (it was binary) of my right hand, thumb extended (that was the half an hour), ‘behind the willow tree?’

‘Tommorrow?’ she asked, rotating her hand clockwise.

‘Day after,’ I did the same with both.

‘Alright,’ she dipped her head, blinking twice.

‘I love you’, I flipped my hair.

Time to head to class.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.10.2014 @ 8:37 pm


“It’s a pity,” I said. I had hoped that would be enough, but it had not been, and I could not stand the way she was looking at me right now. I didn’t know what else to do, though. I was expected to grieve, but I was not bothered, and when I tried to cry, the sobs stuck in my throat.

I wished people would stop making such a big production over her death.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.10.2014 @ 12:08 am


I doubted any of this was real. I doubted the feeling of the floor beneath my feet, the structure of my body – four limbs? In that configuration? Really? I doubted my name (it sounded contrived) and I doubted the brightly-coloured plants I could see through the window right now. Plants shouldn’t be green, I thought. How could they be real? I doubted my memories, because if I were really as used to this place as I ought to be, I would not be doubting it at all. I blinked, trying to wake up.

I felt lightheaded and numb, and the world was fading around me, like an image projected onto the mist, even as it remained bright and three-dimensional and solid. I was dying, I thought, or this was all a dream, and I was going to wake up and never see my family or my friends or my dog again, because none of them were /real/ –

The one thing I didn’t doubt was my own fear, and the pounding of my heart in my chest.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.06.2014 @ 1:42 am


I felt like something in my chest was being flattened. Like six tonnes of rock had somehow forced themselves between the spaces inside my body. I felt so terrible I could hardly force out a single word. “How could you…?”

“You told me,” he said. “You told me you wanted him out of the way. So we could…”

He drew closer to me. I shook. I felt like I had been the one to be stabbed, and not my boyfriend. I may well be if I didn’t play along.

“…be together.” I leaned away from the kiss, tried to push him away. But half-heartedly. He might still hurt me, too.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.05.2014 @ 2:54 am


“We want to make ourselves look *worse*?” I muttered.

“Not worse,” he said, adjusting his tie. “Like we haven’t quite had the opportunity to do any better. Like we’re not powerful.” He turned to me, and I avoided his eyes as I always did. They were too cold. “Everyone roots for the underdog, Margaret.”

“Understood, sir.” I stared dully at the wall. Underdog or not, I did not root for him and I never would.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.04.2014 @ 1:44 am


“What’s wrong with you, Jessica?” He said. I did not know how to answer. I hated this. I hated him sitting across from me, looming no matter how much he tried to get on my level, I hated being asked what was wrong with me. I hated knowing something was. “You’re failing all your classes, you’re hardly even /going/ to school – no, don’t think I didn’t know that, Jess.”

“Maybe the only thing wrong here is you measuring my worth by my academic success.”

“Maybe you need to up your game already.”

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.01.2014 @ 5:32 pm


I sat down next to the boy in the wheelchair, mind already buzzing with thoughts of today, of what I wanted to tell him. “Hey, did you know Clarence asked me out today? I mean, damn, not that he’s a bad guy, but he could really stand to show a little -”

“I have something to say,” he said, in a voice that made me stop short.

And stood up with no difficulty.

“You told me -”

“I tell a lot of people a lot of things.” He leaned over me – the sun behind him turning his face to a silhouette. “For example, right now? I’m going to tell you that I cannot stand another word of your puerile bullshit.”

“Is that true?”

“Does it matter? I just insulted you. You don’t care when a person’s insulting you if they’re lying or not, you care that they’re insulting you. Maybe listen for once.”

Completely unbidden, a grin sprang to my face. “You *are* lying. You care about me,” I whispered.

“Shut the fuck up,” said he.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 10.01.2014 @ 2:10 am


I said I’d never do it. I’d promised.

This was what I thought about as my eyes met his, as I struggled with the words caught in my throat and on my tongue. “I’m leaving you,” I told him. “I can’t take this anymore.”

I expected his angry reaction so much, I hardly noticed it when he stood up and yelled at me.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.30.2014 @ 12:27 am


He put his hand over my neck. He didn’t strangle me – just put his hand, gently, around my neck, made me feel vulnerable and uncomfortable.

And I found I could no longer be angry at him. My feelings seemed deeply unimportant, not worth acting upon. He had sapped me of all conviction.

He took his hand away, and, dully, I grabbed it; dully, I said – “How did you do that?”

“Does it matter? We weren’t arguing about anything important anyway.”

I wasn’t sure what I had been yelling about anymore, but, in my current state, it was impossible for me not to agree. /Nothing/ seemed important.

“Come on.” He grabbed my hand.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.28.2014 @ 6:56 pm


It was odd how someone so flexible could be so very inflexible, I thought. Ironic.

She did yoga, but she always did it in the exact same order, always did it at the exact same time. She could not handle anyone else interfering, or anyone else walking in on her.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.27.2014 @ 10:07 pm


“You need to broaden your horizons,” she said, sitting next to me on the flat roof.

I crinkled my nose and turned my face away from the smoke getting blown my way. “You need to broaden your scientific horizons,” I said. “I’m not smoking.”


“Cancer, girl. Just because our life sucks doesn’t mean death is any better.”

She scoffed. “It’s not about -”

“Yes, it is.” I said. “You’re self-destructive.”

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.26.2014 @ 7:37 pm


This was my retreat. Whenever I was here, well, it was not that nothing else mattered – it was that nothing else could find me, and I could wait, think, until I could face it all again. This was less a place, than a state of being.

A state of being wherein my family thought I had disappeared off the face of the earth, because they could not see me anywhere.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.25.2014 @ 6:14 pm


“You are the most ungrateful bitch I have ever had the misfortune of speaking to,” he said.

That was incorrect, though. I was grateful, I was very grateful, and I was thanking him for it with every moment I continued to breathe. I had simply never thanked someone for anything before, and I did not know how.

“I don’t mean to be.” I said.

“You are.” He said.

I already knew he thought that, though.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.24.2014 @ 5:12 pm


My memories of this place were fuzzy, as if I had only imagined them, or dreamed about it. I could not say if I had ever been here before, and if I had, I could not say when, or how. But I knew the ground, and I knew every stone, I knew the eucalyptus trees and the jewel-blue sky.

I searched the mud for any sign of footprints, for any mark I might have made here. In a sense, I asked the place – ‘do I know you?’, and although it responded with a ‘no’, I was certain it was lying.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.23.2014 @ 4:16 pm


I’d hardly even have to move, I realised. Right now, one tug on the trigger… a bullet could hit someone, whether I intended it to, or whether it missed, or ricocheted. It would hardly take a movement, and someone would be in the hospital.

“Alex?” I heard a voice call, and looked up from the gun. I ought to put it back before I was caught messing with it.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.22.2014 @ 11:49 pm


“Don’t,” he said. “It would be undignified.”

I didn’t think it was undignified to fight back. Or struggle. But, no, he told me, if I were ever to get tortured, to just sit there, quietly, dumbly, not even express my hatred.

But the worst part is, I knew that his ‘dignity’ would be harder than mine. I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle his version of dignity, because I was just a little girl who was trying to become a spy.

“Fine.” I muttered, resentfully, to prove myself wrong.

This was messed up. This was more messed up than it had seemed when I first read the conspiracy theory.

» Posted By a terrible poet On 09.21.2014 @ 7:06 pm

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