tHis limErick is quite out of pLace,
it’s really just taking up sPace.
wasting yoUr time,
no reaSon or rhyme,
it might As weLL be erased.
About the Creator
A. González
I am a 24 y/o person from a small town in Oklahoma.
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See You Next Tuesday!
[Foreword] My Junior year English teacher used to give us ‘bellwork’, which was essentially journaling for a grade. She only required it to be five lines long and she provided a prompt, so it was simple. If you missed a day, you could just write five sentences in its place. Being the difficult kid I was, I took advantage of this opportunity and wrote limericks for my bellwork. Yes, a new limerick every day. This teacher, unfortunately, severely disliked me and often threw my papers away, so it’s likely my poems are rotting in a landfill somewhere, among the garbage it kind of somewhat belongs. Well, Lauren, try to throw this one away!
By A. González3 years ago in Poets
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 20 hours ago in Poets
Comments (1)
OOOh that flows so well