the boys i've loved and the end of the world
catarine hancock
to all young writers and poets
it has taken me a long time to develop my writing style. when i first started writing poetry, shortly before i entered high school, my poems were full of clichés and every line oozed unoriginality. it took me several months, nearly a year, before i really began to get a feel for writing prose and poetry. even now, after four years, i am still changing and growing as a writer.
my message to you is to not give up. if your work seems cliché or boring, keep writing. if nobody seems to like it, keep writing. even when you have writer's block and nothing you write is decent, keep writing. that is how you grow.
emily dickinson did not stop writing. sara teasdale did not stop writing. robert frost and edgar allen poe did not stop writing. pablo neruda, maya angelou, e.e. cummings, langston hughes; these are our predecessors. and as for the poets who come after us: we are theirs.
something i have learned through sharing my writing is that oftentimes, your writing will never be good enough in your eyes. you will always find something missing. it is very rare that you will write something that will make you say, "there is nothing i would add to this. it has portrayed everything i have wanted it to."
but that doesn't mean it isn't good enough in the eyes of somebody else. to somebody else, that poem, that piece of prose, could be exactly what they are feeling. it could resonate with them. it could make them feel.
and that, above all else, is the most important part of writing. if you write with feeling, and if you can make somebody else smile, or cry, or think, then you have succeeded.
i hope that i have succeeded, just as i hope you will too.
for my followers.
you have given me more than i could have ever asked for.
thank you.
to the first
i was full of words
and you were the one
who cut deep enough
to unleash them.
not a day goes by
that i don't thank you
for it.
-c.h.
i didn’t think this needed an explanation
but i’m going to explain it
anyway
i write about love
because it is
what i know
i write about pain
because it is
what i’ve felt
i write about abuse
because it is
what i’ve been through
i write about politics
because it is
what i care about
i write about
what i have
experienced
i write about
what makes me
quake with anger
heave with sadness
smile with joy
i will never write
for anybody
but myself
i will never write
something that
i don’t mean
i know my art
will not reach everybody
and i have never
expected it to
but i expect—
no
i demand—
respect as an artist
because that
is what
i deserve
-c.h.
eclipse
we looked at each other like
we were the sun and the moon
locked in a gravitational war,
bound to cross and bound to
break apart.
to you,
i was the entire night sky.
to me,
you were just another
forlorn stargazer.
but you looked at me like
i was your whole universe.
i cried because i was
full of dead stars and broken debris,
but you still called me
beautiful.
you were the flaming meteor
about to send me up in smoke
but i kissed you anyways.
there's a burning crater on my lips
from your touch and
i think i may always be in love
with you.
we looked at each other like
we were the sun and the moon
and we knew we'd only eclipse for so long.
we knew all along that
soon we would be apart,
just waiting for gravity to bring us back together
again.
-c.h
you're the only one who doesn't haunt me
i think i saw you in my dreams, my dear,
it brought us back to the time,
when life was far less complicated,
and you would say, "you're mine."
you were by far the only one i loved,
but that was way back then,
for we walked on a long old rope
that was paper, paper thin.
it snapped and sent us falling down,
i felt you slip away from me,
but that's okay, for when i landed,
there was something beautiful to see.
i saw the gold around my feet
and the darkness up above;
sometimes the key to joy
is falling out of love.
i think i saw you in my dreams, my dear,
and i learned a thing or two,
i have a soulmate, he's there somewhere,
but that soulmate isn't you.
-c.h.
us pertaining to a rainbow
red: when i first met you, all i saw was the red of your shirt and the plumpness of your lips, and the first thing i thought was i want you, i want you, i want you. you asked for my name and i blushed bright red, you looked at me and said oh god, i want you, i want you, i want you, or at least you said it in your head, because i swear i saw it in your eyes.
orange: your touch burned me like fire and i couldn't get away from your scorching heat no matter how hard i tried and god, did i love it. you tasted sour and sweet at the same time, but nothing tasted as good or sizzled as much as when you first kissed me.
yellow: euphoria fell short of describing me when you were there and my laughter would bubble over from my lips, and you made me so happy. i would trace my fingers across your jaw because you glowed, oh my, you glowed like a sun and to me, you were the equivalent of a star.
green: we were blossoming and ever changing, but we walked to each other's heartbeats and i could feel you wrapping around me like a vine, but i didn't even notice they were crushing me until they were roped around my lungs.
blue: i woke up the next morning with bruises on my face and fingerprints around my throat, but it was all metaphorical because while your hands never touched me that night, your words slapped me as if they had. i spent the day hiding from you in the bathtub, afraid to look in the mirror, for i knew i was decaying.
indigo: you didn't pick up your phone that night when i tried to call you while you were at work, and you didn't come home until one in the morning, and i shouldn't have over thought it, but it's hard to over think something that's written all over the walls and in this case, written in lipstick on your neck.
violet: you handed me my suitcase one sunday morning and told me to pack my things, and i thought this was god's punishment to me for not believing, because maybe if i had gone to church that day the inevitable would have been delayed a little bit longer. i asked you twelve more times if you were sure you wanted me to leave, but all you did was stare at me
with shadows under your eyes, because maybe, i had been sucking the brightness out of you all this time, too.
black: i left months ago, and i am still haunted by you at night, even if i close my eyes and pretend that i'm not here anymore. the only place i ever dreamt of being was by your side, and now that that dream is crushed, what is there left to want, and even after all this time, i still want you, i still want you, i still want you.
-c.h.
rule #1: never cry over a fuckboy (how to get over someone in a month and a half)
week one: rinse your body of his touch. drown yourself in hot water from the shower, choke on the steam that rises from your red, soaking flesh. scrub yourself raw, until you have shed every last skin cell that could have been touched by his fingertips.
week two: take his jacket and drench it in gasoline. light fire to it in the middle of the night, let the smoke swirl in your lungs. inhale, exhale, the smell of him is leaving. leave the burnt remains on his doorstep.
week three: get drunk, turn off your phone, so you won't be able to call him. leave it in the other room. watch sit-coms and soap operas until four in the morning. laugh and cry until you throw up. it won't be because of him.
week four: hold the necklace he bought you close to your chest. remember. you can remember the good so long as you don't forget the bad. break the clasp with a hammer and place it back in its velvet box.
week five: buy yourself a new dress. put it on and call the boy who's been chasing you since grade school, ask him if he wants to go out. he'll say yes. take him to dinner and hold his hand, but do not kiss. adjust. adjust slowly, carefully.
week six: call him. when he picks up, ask him how he's doing. when he says he's doing fine, tell him you're glad. when he asks why, tell him you were just checking and hang up without a goodbye. he will call back that night, and the next, and the next. but he already lost you, and you are okay.
-c.h.
bias
when i am talking
to a boy and he finds out
that i write poetry,
the first thing he asks is,
"will you ever write about me?"
i tell him honestly,
"hopefully, i won't."
and he asks,
"why?"
it's my answer that
always catches them.
"because,
if i end up writing about you,
it means that all the promises
you made me
ended up being broken
and maybe you're somebody
i shouldn't have spent so much
time on
if all you were going to do
in the end is
break my heart."
if they're smart,
they call me on it.
tell me that every
relationship is worth it
because you always have
something to learn.
in the end,
these are the boys
i write about most.
but if they love me,
they stay quiet.
because the thought
of them breaking my heart
is enough to suck the
words from their tongues.
these are the boys
i don't write about.
not because they aren't there,
but because i cast the
fatal blow.
and even now,
i have never been good
at saying sorry.
-c.h
oceans, the future
i watch the brown waves
stumble against the shore.
the water sloshes against
my shins, hot and oily.
plastic bags wrap around
my ankles
like seaweed,
bottle caps crunch
under my toes;
the new seashell.
i walk along the
glass-bedded sand
and trace my feet
through soda tabs.
a turtle limps by,
its neck strangled
by a six pack ring.
i am so thrilled
to see an animal,
i don't even notice
it can barely breathe.
-c.h.
for the girls with the frizzy hair and bitten nails and the boys with bushy eyebrows and marionette limbs:
there will be the kids with perfect skin and white smiles and flawless bodies. do not be scared of them. often the "prettiest" people are the most hurt inside.
find a home away from home for yourself, whether it be the gym floor, the computer lab, or the auditorium stage. you will need one.
let your heart get broken. you have to learn how to breathe with pieces of your heart piercing your lungs. trust somebody you shouldn't, make a bad decision. but always learn from your mistakes. too many wrong moves will kill you.
there will always be somebody out to get you. don't let them.
in every school, there is one teacher that you will connect with more than any other. cherish that bond, because it only comes once, and you only have so much time.
don't wear that dress if it doesn't feel right. don't wear that shirt if you don't actually like it. don't do anything you don't want to do for the sake of staying with the trends.
for the girls: if somebody touches you in a way you don't like, don't be afraid to fight back. you are not weak. you are not an object. make sure they, and you, know that. make sure your fellow girls know their worth, too, and do not contribute to the degradation of it.
for the boys: if you see a girl in trouble, help her. make sure she doesn't go into that bedroom alone with him while she's drunk. stand up for her if she's being harassed. if you see something but can't do anything yourself; tell somebody. call the police. protect girls, and educate your fellow boys on how to treat them.
watch the news. read the paper. engage in discussion. know about politics and what's going on in the world. in times like these, it's no longer alright to not care about things; in fact, it could be harmful.
people will die. people you know, people your peers know. car wrecks, drugs, suicides, gun violence: they will all take people you walk those halls with. so, that being said: if you love somebody, tell them. if you think somebody may need a friend, be that friend. you don't want to be stuck in the aftermath of a tragedy, thinking, "oh, if only i'd said this. if only i'd done this."
there will be days where you look in the mirror and want to remold your body like clay, days where you may not even want to get out of bed. on those days, it's okay to cry, to want to be different. but the next morning, remind yourself; you will be okay, you will be okay, you will be okay.
-c.h.
time is everything
it’s been 61 days since you last told me you loved me. 1,464 hours, or 87,840 minutes, or 5,270,400 seconds. i have never been one to keep time but i used to count the hours we talked to each other on the phone (the record was 5) and how many seconds it took for you to tell me you loved me (sometimes it was .65 seconds, but when you were feeling sad it was 3.8), and how many minutes you spent staring at me in class (one time it was a whole 12 minutes before the teacher called on you). i have been alive for 15 years, or 5,475 days, and you were a part of my life for only 102. 2,448 hours, or 146,880 minutes, or 8,812,800 seconds. i have never been one to keep time but i wanted to keep track of us. now i only keep a record of how long i go without thinking of you (5.4 minutes) and how many hours i spend crying because you’re gone (so far: 73). i have never been one to keep time but i wanted to count how many days (64) i was in love with you and now i have to count how many days i’m going to hurt because you left (forever).
-c.h.
the boys i've loved and the end of the world #1
"the world is ending, you know."
he looks at me through tired eyes as i say it. "is that why you're here?"
i s
hrug. "i guess." he takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and smiles when i raise my eyebrows. "i didn't know you smoke, now," i say.
"i don't," he explains as he places one between his lips, "but the world is ending. can't get lung cancer in twelve days."
i chuckle, watch him take his first drag form his first cigarette. he coughs, and smiles at me. "i loved you, you do know that, right?"
"yeah, yeah, i know," i reply, and he takes a longer drag this time. "you were important… an important lesson, i think."
"how so?"
"we were too young, too stupid. we were incapable of fixing the mess we'd made with our own two hands. only time could do that."
he nods, smoke filtering from his parted lips. the moon turns his black hair to a silvery blue, and i am almost caught up in how beautiful he could be, sometimes.
"how many times did you fall in love with her before you realized she would never give you what you wanted?" i ask, and he blinks, surprised by the question.
"the same goes for you," he counters, "but with me instead."
there is a comfortable silence. "twice," i say, finally, "what about you?"
"twice. and it was always after you. it was always what ruined us, again and again."
i think about this as he finishes his cigarette. "sometimes, i wonder if we could have made it. if we weren't so young," i tell him.
he nods his head, smiles. "yeah, sometimes i think about that too."
-c.h.
tomorrow
the sink in the kitchen won’t stop dripping. when i sit on the living room couch i can hear it over the hum of the television and i think i’ve told you to fix it four times. every time you smile and tell me you will tomorrow. that’s what you’ve always said. “i’ll mop the floor-- tomorrow. i’ll mow the yard-- tomorrow. i’ll stop you from crying-- tomorrow.” i’m beginning to think that you are just an endless closet of throw-away promises and old shoes that you used to wear when you liked to chase me. once you caught me, you took them off and never put them back on because you knew you’d never need to. they sit in the closet next to a pile of “tomorrow”’s and i don’t let you see me cry anymore. you’ve long since forgotten how to make me stop.
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