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This is strange. I’m writing from my husband’s office, in the upstairs, because my parents are in the office/bedroom below. It isn’t strange that they are here, because they have been our lifesavers this year, and have been there more often than not, but because their bedroom turned into my office, and I’m used to sitting there with my tunes and my chapbooks and my ahhhhhhhh. Up here it is different. Strange. And not where I’m used to poeming, which has become its own thing.

All day long I’ve been thinking about my teen dystopian novel, and all I want to do is add to it. That’s a good thing, I think. I finished Divergent and got my hands on Insurgent, and I love it all the same. And so, tonight I think I get to write a sequel to yesterday’s poem. Yesterday’s poem was basically an outline of a novel, but this morning around four thirty-am I woke up realizing there were important bits left out. Grandly scheming, there are parts of the fiction that I left out of the poem, that I’m going to include tonight.  It is indulgent, yes, but I don’t care. I’m trying to adopt the voice of the adolescent, remember.

Sent  Away, the Sequel. #Aloneatlast

It wasn’t until the winter that the powerful hunger emerged.               All the fresh things had lasted until Thanksgiving, when it was decided, by the committee,                                                                   that it would be better to have temptation removed.

By December some were sick with home and morning,                         and it was at that point someone, the girl from Orange County, decided it was time for a show.

They siphoned the last of the gas from the vans,                                   in order to run the lights in the drama building,                                 and tuned up all the instruments.

They huddled in the bathrooms for acoustics, and practice, and warmth. That night everyone danced, and the singers grew horse and sounded old and the younger ones gathered around the gravely pitch.

It felt good to make something again.

After the dance it grew cold. The boldest among them decided to hunt once more, and the rest grew weary of the last of the cocoa packets. And besides, they were worried about the hunters.

The last who’d come back seemed glazed, and ravenous, and much colder than before. It seemed there was a sickness.  Their paper cuts bled daily, it seemed.

The girl with the curious hair resolved to lead them out of it. She rang the bell, asking for silence, and screwed her courage up tight, and said, let’s have last light.  Like we used to. Like, just for acknowledging the trials of the day, and stuff.

So they did. There was appreciation, and fear, and loneliness, just like before. Afterwards there were a-frame hugs, between the friendly, and sequestered corners between the more-than. Just like before.

The girl with the curious hair found her self in high esteem, for the first time, and she climbed up onto the rafters to see him. “You think I wanted it like this but I wanted jobs and gas ranges and then babies and comfort you think I wanted to give it to you like this, like an accident?”, he said. He was a sensitive boy.

They had been deemed worthy, those two, by their peers, of leading and being followed. But when they heard the baying of the pack, none of the listened to the pep talks and back rubs.

None of them listened.


I’m just going to keep doing this, as long as I have these teen thrillers to read. It is just too fun. Happy Tuesday, poemires. Also, happy April Fool’s day 🙂