imperfections: (im)perfect

The final part of the anthology.
This piece was written as a slam poem, and performed at a school poetry slam.
Paired with this poem.

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in elementary school, 

I learned to

be perfect at grades, 

to choke down 

instructions in pills 

made of chalkboard dust

that dulled crayon colours 

on the canvas

into black and white numbers

on the lined page,

to accept that less than 100% was to be 

less than perfect

less than whole. 

and I was addicted 

to the taste of empty praise

so I could forget 

the pill got stuck in

my throat every time I got A’s and 

smiley faced stickers on my homework page with

“great job as always”

because I was perfect

in middle school, 

I learned to

be perfect at socializing, 

to spend hours in the bathroom 

staring at my reflection fixing 

my hair, skin, teeth

until my face became the mirror itself

so I could parrot my classmate’s words and their laughter

and slot myself in their numbers 

to never be the 

odd one out.

I anchored myself

to a social structure

and sank into the deep 

of conformity

weighed down by the burdens of a million smiles 

because I was perfect

in high school 

I learned to

be perfect at hiding things,

to stifle sobs behind doors 

and bury shaking hands underneath long sweater sleeves, 

to grit my teeth and lie

“I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine”

but my heart was the eye of a hurricane 

made of procrastinated essays 

and report card grades

pushing me off a pedestal I had made 

for myself

and I was trying to convince everyone 

that I was just flying not 

falling

crashing into a million pieces of ceramic

BECAUSE I WAS FUCKING PERFECT

a few days ago 

sitting in earth and space class 

I learned

that when a nebula lets go 

of its restraint, 

all stardust and void colliding 

inwards in the flux of its own gravity

it does not die - 

it changes into stars,

into galaxies.

so I took a breath

and let perfection go

because I am imperfect.

imperfections: bow

Part 2 of "imperfections"

Paired with this poem.

---------------------------

my heartstrings are strung

too tight 

and every chord 

plucked threatens 

to break

to snap

my first lover played

me like his piano

ribcage bruised against

the pedal 

so when he left 

the steel strings 

were frayed 

and I never thought 

I could be played again

but you learned 

instead to pull

across gently 

with your bow.

and you don’t expect 

the notes that 

come out

to be beautiful 

and you don’t flinch when 

it screeches instead 

you just keep 

on playing and 

that’s enough. 

I have never been 

my favourite song 

but you have always

listened.

imperfections: variations on the colour blue

I had forgotten I had written this.
This is part of an anthology of poetry called "imperfections" I had to compile for writer's craft, in which I had to juxtapose my poetry with a published poet's work.
This is one of the 3 pieces I wrote, meant to be paired with this poem by Andrea Gibson (a slam poet who I greatly admire).

--------------------------------

blue is the colour of 

3 in the morning 

alone 

where sleep doesn’t reach

because blue is the colour of 

the hospital gowns and bedsheets

that my veins

accentuate, 

lying beneath 

memories marked with

the scars of IVs 

dripping chemotherapy 

and the remainders 

of surgical thread 

running along my shoulder blade 

because blue is the colour of

the forget-me-nots 

in my hair 

whispering in my ear 

to always be thankful 

for being a survivor 

because 

you’re not expected to win

against the disease 

if the disease is made of 

your own cells

because blue is the colour 

of the ink that 

slips out of the 

hollow in my throat 

onto the page in 

scrawls that 

bruise my fingers 

and dyes my bones

in words that I don’t 

know how to say other than

Mom Dad

I’ve never been afraid of dying

I’m afraid of living with it again

because blue is the colour of 

the lake, the ocean,

the waves that pull

at my feet

trying to lull me to 

the peaceful deep,

but I am afraid of drowning

myself along with the thoughts

the demons

and so I stay awake with the sting 

of salt on my scabs and 

scars

and the taste of 

loneliness thick on my tongue

Magnum Opus (Writer's Craft Summative)

Writer's Craft has consumed my creativity. Holy shit.

In the end, though, I managed to create a final summative project that I'm really proud of (although it took a couple of sleepless nights and a whole load of stress).

I'm hosting it on a free website right now, where you can play a soundless version of the game (since Neocities doesn't allow mp3 or other music files), or download the full game through a link there. You can check it out here.

It would be great to get feedback on it as well, since this is a pretty new medium to me. If you want to try your hand at interactive fiction, check out Twine. I've been wanting to try Twine and interactive fiction for the longest time, but this project gave me the incentive (and deadlines) I needed to actually finish a project (I have a couple of half-finished ones lying around somewhere).

Hoping to get back to the somewhat scheduled poetry, probably starting as soon as high school is over (only a month)!

writer's craft prose

We did some freewriting in writer's craft the other day, which included the prompts of:
it's more difficult than you think/
quiet rain/
senioritis/
lost things

I decided to push myself and use all of them, and this is how it ended up (I feel like my style has become more and more fragmented and post-modern these days)

------------------

quiet rain against

cold fogged window panes 

of glass, 

spring day calling for 

us to stop 

looking outside and listen 

to the pattering of 

pencils against paper 

and the shush of 

teachers muttering behind 

closed doors

but we are lost

motivation lost

consciousness lost

to the sounds of water 

and promises it'll be 

over soon.

we had vowed to

ourselves on a sunny day that 

"of course not, that

wouldn't be us"

but it's harder than you think to

not fall into that

lull.

but perhaps it's 

for the better, 

so we can kick and 

dip our feet 

into different puddles 

before deciding to dive 

deep into one 

or two 

or more 

not having to come up for 

air because quiet 

water never 

hurt anyone and 

we'll always be able 

to surface when we 

want

and even if we 

can't those 

currents and undertows will 

carry us to 

awesome/awful 

unknowns and 

that's where we are:

on the brink of known 

and unknown, 

feeling water on our skin but 

dry land under 

our toes; 

quiet rain against 

our windows 

calling for us to look 

outside and 

beyond.