A Couple of Sad Things

by checkeredfoxglove

I wrote these in high school, when I was really into abusive relationships. (Unlike some people, I actually did understand that these relationships were abusive; I just thought it was hot, and was proud of being messed up. Forgive me. We were all teenagers once.) I still really like them, so here you go: enjoy, or don’t. 

Also, the first one was published in my college literary magazine, so that’s cool.

TW emotional abuse.

POEM: Sharpener (this started out as a joke piece about pencil sharpeners and penises (some guy was being a jerk to me, so I threatened him in a ridiculous way to get him to leave me alone, but it was high school, so it didn’t work), and ended up somewhere completely different.)

STORY: This is the Alphabet (Inspired by this haiku from a haiku generator: around his ass cheeks / and over his low back this / is the alphabet. NSFW)

 

SHARPENER

My heart is the sharpener

                        to your pencil;

            shaving off your precious skin as you approach

                        cutting your defense down and down

                                    (in excruciating layers)

                        to your leaded weapon core.

            One-way destruction: you stab me and you snap, and only I can hone you.

                        Down and down and down…

                        to a useless stub

My heart is the sharpener

                        to your pencil

                        and now there’s nothing left of you worth sharpening.

THIS IS THE ALPHABET

All the language I will ever need is wrapped up in his body. The form of him, the lines and curves and the shadows that move with the firelight, this is the alphabet, these are the only words. Rather than bending him over and reading the story in his arched back, in the cant of his hips, how could I have loved stiff black ink on cold paper? It was my life before him. My life was worthless.

The stories in their essence are fuck me, love me, touch me, want me, but around the essence there is the beautiful tone of letters that nobody else can see. I can read the reasons in the set of his hands, the arch of his wrists; I can read the conclusions in his curled toes and tightening legs. It is my language, and it is the only language.

Without him I have no stories. I have no words, nothing with which to name things or think about things, or speak to those who need to be spoken to; without him my spine is snapped, I cannot signal my vocal chords to function, I have no signals to send in the first place. I have nothing.

The stories in his body are endless, and I will read them all. I told him so; he did not understand, but that is irrelevant; I promised. I will read the infinite stories in him. And he will twist and writhe and bend to breaking to tell the stories, because I must read them and he must tell them. Every last endless one of them.

I will have infinity for him. I promised.

 

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