July 28, 2014
She traced her finger along the base of my scalp, right above the nape of my neck. I flinched. She said nothing, but the wordless condemnation blared out loud and clear in my head.
I should have known I couldn’t part my hair in a straight line. What was I thinking, putting my hair in pigtails?
My mother’s icy finger, still pointing and jeering at my pounding head, underlined the truth I already knew.
My pigtail attempt, like so many other efforts in my life, was a failure.
This one was written ten years ago, way back in middle school! I think Mini Maria was a little cheesy… 😉
The King of Cheese by Maria Ferguson
This is a story about the King of Cheese. That’s why it is entitled “The King of Cheese.” If it wasn’t about the King of Cheese, I might have called it “Unicorn Pastures” or “A Day at School.” However, this story is about a king, a mouse, who rules over cheese (quite literally, in fact).
For a headache, aspirin
For a muscle ache, ibuprofen
For an ear ache, antibiotic
For a stomach ache, Tums
For a heartache…what?
I know one thing for sure:
I feel the pain like a cut.
And I can’t get the cure:
It’s miles away.
When push comes to shove,
The ache’s here to stay.
Oh, my dear love,
The cure’s simple to find,
Just not to do.
It’s clear in my mind:
I just need you.
My heart is hurting, and I know the cure
If I rip it out, it’ll heal for sure.
It’s useless to me where I am, here
It’s not like I use it, without you near.
I’ll place it, beating, into a box bright blue
I’ll send it by first class mail to you.
In bright red letters, I shall write on there:
Here is my heart. Handle with care.
I feel…cold.
I’m scared. My heart shivers
despite the pressure squeezing it ever inward, smaller and smaller till it’s ready to burst.
Each hair on my body tingles with the anxiety blazing across my skin
And even as the tears stream down my face
I know
my pain pales in comparison to yours. Continue reading
Happy anniversary to meeeee!
I just noticed today is my one-year WordPress anniversary! I feel a little silly acknowledging it since I haven’t posted in forever, but my best (and pretty much only) blogging happened last summer, so I’m hoping to pick up where I left off starting ASAP.
So, yes, I’m still alive, still an engineering student (one year left for undergrad, woooo!), still a writer, still not sure what I want to do with my life. I wrote a great paper on wingsuit flying for my technical writing class that I should post on here. Designing wingsuits would maybe potentially be my dream job…but I digress.
On my one year blogoversary, I do hereby vow to revive my writing and thereby Behold the Infinite this summer, and take advantage of the time while I have it! I’ll be taking an intensive Russian course just for funsies for most of it, but that should inspire more writing, not replace it, right? Да!
So с днём рождения to my blog, hello again, world, and I hope to be seeing more of you very soon!
I felt scared and alone
and you were always there
I felt isolated, on my own
and you were always there
I felt ugly and insecure
and you were always there
I felt hesitant and unsure
and you were always there Continue reading
“You are a poet,”
She told me,
And maybe words can make it so.
My pen blazes its trail
Heedless
Regardless
Careless
And yet
So
Very
Careful.
I’d like to be a poet
But I am an adolescent:
Ungainly, gawky, disjointed
Growing, perhaps,
Maturing, maybe,
But still covered in those awful pimples
And sweating through my makeup.
I feel a longing
Discontent
Baffling in a way that makes perfect sense.
An “if only” added to a “but actually”
Sandwiched between two slices of denial
With a side of greasy fries.
I pause to self-edit
But make myself press on.
Maybe if I don’t acknowledge the failures,
They’ll simply
Disappear.
Written March 13, 2014
I just experienced my first ever snow where I’m actually living in it and not just visiting. What do I do? Make a snowman, obviously! And if I’m going to make a snowman, of course it’ll be a tribute to Calvin and Hobbes.
A swirl of smoke paints its way to the heavens. Hate, contempt, anger, and despondency weave their strands.
Gray gives way to a multihued masterpiece: poison green and fevered pink, sickly orange and despairing blue, a psychosis that pulses with the beat of the bass.
The ephemeral tapestry blisters, shudders, and gives way to the breeze, dissipating, leaving only the rank stench of pollution in its wake.
