…

So, WordPress has changed a lot since I last used it.

Not sure I like the new post format. Or the “live preview”

Working on some stuff. Might post some short crappy bits. Mostly sappy crap because I’ve run out of ideas.

It’s been a while, I know that. This isn’t a post, this is just to let you know that even though nobody reads this (except you, Imi.) I’m still here and I can’t write. I’m physically incapable of putting anything on… paper? screen? keyboard? that doesn’t suck royal balls.
So I’ll see you ’round, I guess.

Footsteps

This is supposedly part deux of Look But Don’t Touch but I wrote it during biology and I didn’t exactly have Look But Don’t Touch on hand so it doesn’t quite have the same feel. It still stands as a piece in it’s own right, though.

Footsteps. Increasing in pace at the same time as mine. I don’t need to look back to know who it is. Only one person would follow me home.

The blood still pounds in my ear drums, and I can still hear the heavy bass 3 streets away from the party. I’m swaying slightly from the alcohol, and all I want to do is curl up and die. But the ever present footsteps are getting louder.

Stupid party, stupid me, stupid you.

I shouldn’t have gone. I should’ve known you’d be there, you’d get drunk, and you’d fuck around. I’ve still got the marks from last time. So. fucking. stupid. Goddamn.

The thing is, though, you’re the one who should’ve let it go. It’s been 2 months and every time I wanted to go back I remembered what you did and that bile rose up in my throat. I didn’t tell anyone, so why won’t you leave me alone?

We both know you didn’t love me.

And that’s when I break into a run, because I can just about feel your breath on my neck..

You’re breaking my heart, even as your fingers scrape my shoulders and you hold me back.

“Fuck you.” I scream. You punch me. I knew that was coming, and I pull away to lessen the impact. The last thing I see before I black out are the tears on your face.

Wait, what?

My Little Sister

This was originally saved as “klkihlhiyukg.txt” because there didn’t seem to be an appropriate name for it. Then I edited it heavily. Possibly suitable for public consumption now. Thoughts?

Dad had been the one to find the body. It was unexpected – he had gone upstairs to wake her up, thinking she had slept in. It was time for school, and all that.
I don’t think he knew what to do, who to call. It’s not like having a bike stolen.
There was no point calling an ambulance, either.
She’d done it in the middle of the night.
My little sister had been cold for hours before we found her.
And that was my wednesday morning. I had to call mum, because dad was talking to the police. I had to explain that she needed to come home, not at the end of her business trip, but now. Mum and dad hadn’t been talking for a long time, at that point.
They didn’t fix that, after my little sister was cold, either.
I had shut my eyes when the body was carried through on a stretcher, covered in a white plastic sheet.
There was a note, penned by my little sister.
It read, in my little sister’s neatest italics, “Mum, Dad, Ivan.”
I didn’t want to ruin this last memento of my little sister.
“Hi you.” It read. My little sister had written that.
“It’s not you, it’s me.” It read. My little sister always had a wicked sense of humour.
“I love you.” It read. My little sister loved me.
My little sister was dead.

Look But Don’t Touch

Took the post down to enter the competition, and now it’s back up.

“You bitch.” I smile tentatively, my blue eyes tinged with fear as I stare at you.
You raise an eyebrow. I’m not funny anymore, not an entertainment to you. But I’ve ingested too many knock off alcopops to care. You think I’m a lightweight, and you tell me so.
I laugh.
“It’s not funny.” You say, serious now as you run a thumb along my jawline. I always flinch when you do that, but you haven’t worked out why. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I struggle to suppress a nervous titter as I move back from your hand.
“You can look but don’t touch.” I smile weakly.
Your eyes narrow. “But you love it when I touch you.” and you drop the word touch like an icy tombstone.
I bite my lip, stained blue from the cheap drinks.
“That’s what you think.” I say, eyes wide, in a feat of bravery you haven’t encountered in months.
You start to laugh. “No, I know it,” you say, and your arms curl around my waist, holding me to you. I’m shaking inside, but I don’t let on. No amount of alcohol ever prepares me for this inevitable moment.
“I love you.” You lie to me at whisper volume.
My voice has dropped and it’s shaking, as I lean up to whisper into your ear, “I love you too.”
Because being here with you, terrified, is better than being without.

It’s been a while

Short and sweet, and an attempt to get me back into writing. It doesn’t really work as a piece, but you can have it anyway

“It’s been a while, you know.” He says softly, moving hair from in front of my eyes.
“I know.” I mumble, and shake my head so the hair falls back into place.
He stiffens, knowing the gesture.
“But you didn’t miss me.” He says. It’s not a question, it’s a fact. I didn’t.
I sigh, quietly. “I have stuff on my mind.”
“Mm. Like what?” He says, and I resist the urge to scowl. He has no right to intrude on my privacy.
I breathe out loudly. Calm down, Nielle. “None of your fucking business,” I spit, and turn my back. I will not deal with his guilt trip shit today.

Runaway Summer

A poem that’s really weird and doesn’t really work as a poem, but it’s 1am and I’m gonna post it anyway cuz I’m like that. The name, runaway summer, is runaway summer because the entire thing is one sentence so it’s a sorta runaway sentence, because it goes on and on, and it’s about summer. Yeah I suck at names. Go judge me. Whatever. It’s 1AM! WHY AM I STILL AWAKE!

Grass is cold against
my bare feet; I don’t mind it,
it’s like they say:
it’s not cold, it’s “refreshing”
on a hot summer day,
with the sun burning tracks down
many women’s backs
and the day lasts forever,
though you wouldn’t
know, to look at it.

Tick. Tick. Squeak. & A wish.

It’s been a while. Again. I have so much shit going on in my life atm. So have a crappy poem!

one or two wishes,
came true,
with one smile,
two tiny kisses,
three words,
and me
and you.

Told you it was crappy. This next piece has terrible language and equally terrible cliches. Try not to snicker too hard at my inability.

Tick. Tick. Squeak. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Squeak. The sound was as steady as a metronome. A smile flit across my face.
“Will you stop that?” Snapped Josie.
“Sorry.” Muttered Cal, as he stopped his pacing and slumped into a seat next to me.
I shifted, placing my elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
“If you get me in shit, Chris, I swear I’ll fucking kill you.”  Said Josie, glaring at me.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Shit happens, Jojo.” I smiled.
She rolled her eyes. She was letting herself get riled up. “My name is Josie. Don’t be a dick. We’re in deep shit here.”
Once again, I couldn’t resist a grin.  “Josie, calm the hell down. We have done nothing wrong.”
“Then why are we here?” She retorted. “I know you, Chris.”
“Really, Jojo? Then why so worried?” I smirked.
“Stop. fucking. calling. me. that.” She said tersely.
Cal leapt up. “Both of you shut the fuck up! In case you’re forgetting, somebody DIED.”
I bit my lip. Callum was right. As fucking always.
Maybe that was why I was joking, though. Nobody knew about me and.. and her. Josie suspected, but Josie was a jealous bitch because she loved me and I loved teasing her.
But I had loved Laney. And Laney had died. And it was all I could do not to cry then and there. Because Laney had used me like I had used Josie and the irony was that it was my fault she died and I fucking LOVED her.
Shit.

Shiny Black Shoes.

I am proud of this more because it’s the first thing I’ve managed to write and finish in this past month due to family problems killing any sense of creativity rather than because it’s any good. So be kind.

Walking down the hallway,
in shiny black shoes,
Skidding round the corner,
Got to keep moving,
But no,
She’s not running from you.

Her eyes point downwards,
her hands buried deep.
She slows to a halt,
by the boy, asleep,
the boy,
who’s like a brother to her.

You watch her as she sits,
on the plastic chair,
she shuffles up to him,
and wakes him lightly
“Hi Lou.”
Tears shine in her eyes.

“He screwed me over. Twice.”
you hear her speak.
“There’ll always be another, lou.”
And that’s your signal.
“Hi, Lou.”
And now it’s your turn.

Graveyard

I wasn’t originally intending something quite like this… but I rather like it.

The room is full of old chairs. The dustcovers have rotted away, leaving nothing but dust. The room is like a chair graveyard. It’s empty, devoid of life, and seems almost in mourning for the stacks and stacks of green plastic chairs that came here to, for lack of a better word, die.

I stand in silence, in the centre of the room. It takes a moment for me to remember why I’m here, but I know I have to do something. I can’t just stay here.

As I begin to tug at chairs, manoeuvring them into a wall alongside my path, the whispers begin. First one, then two, then more and more as the sound rises to a cacophony of crackled hisses.

They all go quiet as I move the last chair to the sideline. I turn to survey my handiwork, realising only too late that I have inadvertently barricaded myself in this graveyard.

And graveyard it is, I think to myself as I turn once more to look at the coffin that called me here.

With each step I take, a tremor runs through me. I’m shaking, but I can’t back out now. As my fingers touch the edge of the lid, pain turns them rigid as the scream tears through my mind. I shut my eyes, determined to make the scream stay in my mind. A gasp trickles out, hanging in the musty smelling air as I reach forward to trace the letters on the coffin.

There is no going back now, I know, as I fight to keep control of my mind. My eyes flick open as I ease the lid upwards, trying to ignore the pain.

I glance down, gazing at the milky blue eyes that opened when mine did.

I can’t hold back the scream, this time, but it’s okay. It doesn’t last long before a cold, powerful hand stops it in my throat.