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wheatfieldspoet · 8 hours

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shared cells

if you opened up my heart, you would see how much of me

is made of you. but the pen is stronger than the scalpel;

when this hereditary ink bleeds, will your crimes then become mine?

— Jade A.

escapril day 28: surgery

napowrimo.net day 28: Write a sijo, a traditional Korean verse form of 3 lines with 14-16 syllables each.

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wheatfieldspoet · 2 days

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live wire finds rest

my mom always said i was wired differently different or weird she said there was no need for a doctor to tell her what she already knew plus maybe it’s just exercise i need to exorcise the demons that keep me up ‘til after midnight so we leave my electrified brain undecoded for decades until i find others like me either already in tune or familiar with this circuitry how there can be no rest until we’ve reached our absolute limit of brain power per hour ‘til we’ve hit the crest of our daily self-defined usefulness to make up for idle unworked hands shocking! to find live wires just like me so now i am not so unique after all and what a relief to be able to hold hands with another mind firing on all cylinders until it’s safe to unplug and we can breathe as we sit in our fumes

— Jade A.

escapril day 27: the absolute limit

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wheatfieldspoet · 2 days

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a letter from my hair salon barbie

wow, look how you’ve grown! it’s been years, but it’s so great to see how you’ve come into your own, figured out who you wanted to be.

i wonder if you remember who your favorite one of us was? from the hours we spent together, and my accessories a big plus…

i’d like to think i was the one. i know you loved my hair and how much you had fun sitting me on the salon chair.

a tiny blow dryer and melted ice turned my highlights pink; you’d do it more than twice, running back and forth to the sink.

i wonder if you’ve given it a try, turning your hair pink or blonde; clip-in extensions or permanent dye, of other colors you’ve grown fond.

the doll days are done, i’ll take my bow, and always treasure the time we had. i think of what you might be doing now; whatever it is, i hope it makes you glad.

— Jade A.

escapril day 26: modernity

@poetryorchard / TeawithHB Barbie Workshop prompt: Use alternate rhyme (ABAB pattern) to write yourself a love letter, it could be from your own perspective, the perspective of your favorite childhood toy, or even your younger self.

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wheatfieldspoet · 2 days

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watching tiktoks with my sister

a dark secret, a guilty pleasure at best, or a potential and latent addiction at worst— it’s dangerous to doomscroll alone, but i like it better with company anyway.

my sister and i know each other’s humor best; we open the app together like the daily paper and marathon through the moving pictures until we’re both choking on laughter and tears.

i’m not aware of the weather until they smile— suddenly, three crescent moons appear midday, a shower of light breaks through the dull sky, and the source of it all leans on my shoulder.

— Jade A.

escapril day 25: dark secret

@adventurerswritingguild day 25: crescent moon

@skylerwitherspoon day 25: Write a poem about joy using at least four of the following words: dull, lemon, choke, shower, resort, potential, monster.

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wheatfieldspoet · 3 days

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i won’t ask you to love me

after Richard Siken

the world doesn’t know what to do with my love, and honestly, neither do i. when i get the chance, my heart never seems to be in the right place: i want them more when they’re halfway out the door; when there’s someone to love, i’m the one ready to run.

i’d rather tend to another’s wounds than expose my own. i’ve been vulnerable before, bit down my lip ‘til it bled as i peeled the gauze off my scraped-raw knee myself. it hurts less when you’re familiar with bracing yourself, easier to answer the whys when it’s only you to blame.

all i want to do is love and i keep getting it wrong. but it’s hard to know what to do with gentleness when every part of me has already been tenderized, always ready to be shaped into a new dream girl mold, hoping whoever consumes me next savors me first.

@adventurerswritingguild day 24: ode to self-deprecation

napowrimo.net day 24: Write a poem that begins with a line from another poem (not necessarily the first one), but then goes elsewhere with it.

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wheatfieldspoet · 3 days

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polaroid

after Taylor Swift

pretty summer splintered dreams the spell of sunshine ceilings shade my baby fresh flashes get my letters watch me smile one glimpse nights swirled starting time running still gleams the way we sit imaginary

— Jade A.

escapril day 23: somewhere, an organ is playing

@skylerwitherspoon day 23: Look around you for something to make a blackout poem out of.

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wheatfieldspoet · 4 days

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wishful thinking

yield to excitement and euphoria: create stories out of a situation, connect the dots of the stars like a map with a destination.

it is a risk to have faith in things unseen in the hope of something tender; yielding the fruit of hard-yearned labor is a quiet yet complete surrender.

in your suspension of disbelief, let desire conquer the leveled-head, forgetting that soon may follow the lonely longing doubt and dread.

but who is the true victor when one is conquered by delusion? ignorance is bliss, they say— perhaps blind faith is the solution.

— Jade A.

escapril day 22: desire

@adventurerswritingguild day 22: yielding VS conquering

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wheatfieldspoet · 5 days

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still

waiting for you to peek up at me from under the tablecloth, crowning your head like mama mary

waiting for you to climb into my bed, warm at my feet; looking for the nudge of your nose to wake me up

looking for the sound of your voice to call after me; waiting for you to greet me at the door when i come home

waiting for you to complete the family count-off; dreading when the last of your hairs fall off my sweater

longing for the sound of your heart, calming drum, to beat in time with mine again

— Jade A.

escapril day 21: the problem of death

@skylerwitherspoon day 21: What are you waiting for?

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wheatfieldspoet · 6 days

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like a moth

to the flame, to the flame i go ever drawn to his flickering glow. seems everyone knows this story well enough to not feel sorry.

but it was deceit in kindness’ form— he told me he could keep me warm, said i could make him burn brighter, just come close & spark the lighter.

he benefitted from my lack of doubt; i was fooled by the fire’s mouth. i should’ve known i’d be consumed— wings & heat have often been doomed.

of course, this story isn’t new to you. i see you, kin— it’s been yours, too. you’ll learn after your survival thrash, burns heal & you can rise from the ash.

— Jade A.

escapril day 20: moth

@adventurerswritingguild day 20: kinship

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wheatfieldspoet · 7 days

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can’t believe i let you

touch me gentler in the mornings half-lidded and not-quite-there looking at me like a dream

hold me like i was something you wanted to keep, but not someone you were afraid to lose

apologize for not being what i want when i wanted you anyway— and you knew damn well

treat me like a quick fix, drink me up to enjoy your company until the high wore off

fixate too much on your own despair, and fantasies of your death someday, to appreciate the life in front of you

spoil what was supposed to be fun, leaving me sick and sour, almost stealing my sweetness

become a learned-the-hard-way reminder to take men at their word when they tell me i deserve better

— Jade A.

escapril day 19: a reminder:

@adventurerswritingguild day 19: sour & trying

@skylerwitherspoon day 19: Where is your rage directed at right now? Write a poem speaking directly to that.

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wheatfieldspoet · 7 days

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a can of worms

after Richard Siken

i wanted to be in love and you happened to get in the way. last summer, i was trying to be yours, miscalculating your capacity to have me in the first place. yearning was my affliction, a liability to the casual— so i locked up my feelings, canned them pre-flutter before they could cocoon, and watched them wriggle as they waited for death.

i buried that can of worms along with any leftover affection. i’m taking back the best laid plans i suspended in midair for you, only open at your convenience. even my shame is laid to rest. this summer, i will be kinder to the feelings that grace my garden: provide them sunlight and water, let them feed on healthy things, and no strict confines anymore— just all the space to grow.

— Jade A.

escapril day 18: suspended in air

@adventurerswritingguild day 18: last summer

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wheatfieldspoet · 13 days

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singaw

/see • NGAO/ noun [Filipino]

1. mouth ulcer or canker sore

When we were children, we were told that the quickest way to relieve singaw was to swish salt water in our mouths, apply bitter liquid medicine directly (gently, gently) with a q-tip— neither remedy a painless one.

In that split-second immediate burn, our caretakers shared empty comfort— it’s supposed to hurt, it gets worse before it gets better — so we learned to keep our sores to ourselves, tonguing the tender, open flesh, caressing the hissing, open wound, gently nipping with teeth— definitely making it worse before (finally, finally) it was better.

2. a steam or leak, usually with a bad smell; typically used in verb form such as sumisingaw /soo • MEE • see • ngao/ (to leak out)

Sumisingaw na ang katotohanan. The truth comes out in all its hideous forms: behind your iron curtain, the marble tiles laid over concrete meant to entomb your mistakes— you can’t keep your skeletons buried forever.

Gather the blooms from your gardens built on thorns, arrange them in your precious, unearned Ming vases, stage them in your stolen rooms— that unpretty decay will seep through. Spraying perfume with abandon cannot mask the smell of rot kicked under the rug.

Decomposition happens out of sight, maggots wriggling towards the heady musk of a meal. A corpse preserved and buried undeservingly with heroes is still worm food.

Tussaud trickery does not make a saint. Only tyrants fixate on divinity.

Go. Write your own novenas, delude yourself further into thinking you are the blessing. Adorn yourself in your rewritten histories, but the truth speaks for itself: Every harvest since only bears spoiled goods. The rot lingers, only made worse by those who share your warped nostalgia. The rest of us pray for a sense of relief. If this is the worst, when does it get better?

— Jade A. & Noey P. ( @thenoeychu )

escapril day 17: truth

@adventurerswritingguild day 17: tongue meet canker sore

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wheatfieldspoet · 14 days

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regret in retrospect

looks like i got the clarity i wanted, after the goodbye can’t believe a part of me wanted to wait for your love when now i can’t imagine a part of you was ever capable

so embarrassing, to have dreams of you & tell you of them as if my desire would make you want me more as if you deserved any part of my mind, body, soul

my heart was in my throat, i could barely keep it down in every way but literal, i bent over backwards for you convincing myself the sick in my stomach was butterflies

to your credit, you warned you might be wrong for me but that didn’t seem to stop you either, deliberately choosing words to pull me into your black hole gravity

thank god for my pride, strong enough to stop my fall we all make mistakes, but i’ll chalk mine up to experience good riddance, i’ll keep my regrets only in retrospect

— Jade A.

escapril day 16: so embarrassing…

@adventurerswritingguild day 16: in every way but literal

@skylerwitherspoon day 16: Write a poem inspired by the line “Every day we wake up and try to forget our dreams.”

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wheatfieldspoet · 15 days

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woman admires other women at the beach

i love women / i mean seeing them / have fun / at the beach / marveling at / how summer greets their skin / bronzed / freckled / prickled pink / all of the above / so many beautiful shapes / adorned in fabric / venusian / out of their shell / wind in their hair / sun in their eyes / but i'm the one who's blinded / i am happy to / be one of them / and they can feel / respected / and admired / at the same time / when i look at them / i think that's what love is / yes, i love the beach / and who am i kidding / i love women

— Jade A.

escapril day 15: beach

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wheatfieldspoet · 16 days

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a martyr’s grudge

i have this dream about an alternate universe where we both get what we want, and i know it’s the bad ending because neither of us deserve it. i’ve seen what happens when selfish people get what they want and it’s never good. yes, we’re selfish, though don’t have to tell you that— you were self-aware enough to ask— maybe only retract when i said you weren’t. every apology you sent was warranted, but my forgiveness for your sins was given unsparingly. i’ve martyred myself plenty enough times for you and that’s what makes me selfish: thinking in my naiveté that the sinner could love a martyr, that the martyr could bleed love if it suffered at the hands of the sinner, that the sinner would have enough guilt that it would turn into love. really, we’re both sinners, but my blood on your hands makes me the better one out of us both. scars deserve sympathy, after all. and what good is all this suffering without the reward in the end? i’ll lick my wounds, get off my own martyrdom, love what you couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t.

— Jade A.

escapril day 14: a recurring dream

@adventurerswritingguild day 14: naiveté

@skylerwitherspoon day 14: Write a poem about a grudge you're holding.

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wheatfieldspoet · 17 days

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why you no longer have access to me

the moment you called me catlike, i realized you didn’t know me at all. did i play myself too open to interpretation, too malleable to what you wanted me to be? my heart was stalled before we met, frozen, but even a small flame could cause melting; fanned for so long, i was fooled by the fumes.

i wish i chose to bite instead of hiss, wish i barked when you offended instead of purring at your bare minimums. i wish i was angrier at you, instead of sorry for myself, for teaching me how some words may seem so similar but couldn’t be more different: like liking and wanting, holding and touching.

i remember your awe— how you looked at me, pleased with yourself, with me under you— i’ll match you with my wonder, questioning how i ever let you have that much power over me. i’d say i’ll never let you know me again, but you never did. stray kitty? please. i’m untamed, but inside me are wolves that can’t be put down.

next time, i’ll let them out. next time, i’ll bite.

— Jade A.

escapril day 13: purr

@skylerwitherspoon day 13: What's the difference between wonder and awe?

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wheatfieldspoet · 18 days

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holding my heaven

my boy i look at you & want to cry you light my life with the sun & sky in your eyes

make me atlas when i hold you in my arms though i can’t carry you around except in my heart

cumulus fluff soft as cotton warm as a hearth you are sunshine even though you love puddles

— Jade A.

escapril day 12: oh, the light!

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