So, it has finally happened! I’m a published author now! ^_^
Or should I say, a published poet, since my first book ever to be published turned out to be a poetry book? Yep. I created this baby. Yes, sir. I started writing poems when I was 9, and 22 years later, bam! Here it is! My debut poetry collection, The Anguish of an Oyster. By Ecem Yucel.
Joke aside, this is something so incredible that I still can’t believe it. I was also terrified to publish it as if the readers were this really good-looking, great guy I’ve fallen…
Time flows, scars fade;
we forget the bad things,
even the good ones
are occasionally remembered.
Even if the wound closed up
and the blood ceased to seep
the second the knife was withdrawn
from the flesh,
the sharp, cold steel of the blade
would still bite.
Not the scabs, the marks
nor the blood loss, the bruises
– what really etched in our minds
and torturing, blinding us
like an eternally blazing, searing sun
is the trauma, the memory of pain
we carry underneath our skin,
in our tear glands, through our veins,
one bright suffering that
never goes dim…
When the elevator doors opened on the seventh floor, they saw Daisy, standing right in front of the elevator doors. She knew he was here, thought Amber. She was waiting for us.
Steve seemed a little panicky though, probably because he wasn’t expecting to see Daisy this soon. He tried to smile or say something like I met Amber in front of the building out of defense, but he couldn’t. There was something on Daisy’s expression that fixed them on the spot they were standing in the elevator car. Amber was right, Steve…
In the dark, I lie still.
Dwelling under the cover of the night,
the mystery of your riddle
Each night, the bonfire burning in me
is smothered to a dim, idle candle,
inside me, every nook and cranny
is shadowed, and I tremble.
Then, like a miracle
one never really wishes to witness,
the sun reaches down
to stroke my temple playfully:
for the rest of the day,
the dark spell will be broken,
like a curse you come across
in a Grimm fairy tale.
I force myself out of the bed.
To look out listlessly,
I drag my reluctant…
I don’t understand Ottie, why didn’t you tell me they fucked each other right here, in the elevator? How could you keep this from me? And you call yourself my friend? How could you do this to me Ottie? And don’t come to me with the crap that you didn’t want me to get hurt. I am fucking hurt! They deceived me Ottie, they betrayed me, just like you did.
What do you mean you didn’t betray me? Why the hell you stood and watched them fuck each other then? Why didn’t you do…
Last year on Valentine’s
we went to a Japanese restaurant,
“Cling, cling!” “Santé!”
We sipped cold Asahi,
and got to eat the dragon sushi.
It was the last time I’ve ever been to a restaurant.
Even when not quarantined,
an autoimmune disease
puts me in the high-risk group, you see.
So, this year,
he bought me two small bottles of perfume,
one smells like summer, and the other like a fig tree;
and three boxes of
milk chocolate caramel squares,
guaranteed to give you a cavity.
And when they arrived,
he took out the Clorox,
and wiped them virus-free.
Read Part I here.
Fully clothed and with blow-dried hair, Amber heard someone talking as she headed to the kitchen to steep a cup of herbal tea for herself. The voices were coming right outside of her apartment she shared with Daisy. Listening attentively, she made Daisy’s voice, though she still couldn’t understand the content of what she was saying.
A tiny hope flickered in Amber’s chest. Maybe it was Steve, whom Daisy was talking to. After the mind-blowing, dirty sex (Amber knew that Daisy was vanilla, so she was using every dirty trick she could think of during sex…
As soon as Amber, you know, my roommate, entered the apartment, I could smell it on her, Ottie. Even though she knows I live there too, I guess she didn’t expect to see me lying on the couch, with a book in hand, welcoming her as soon as she stepped in. With a sudden, guilty-looking blush, she blurted out what seemed to be the first thing she could think of:
“The elevator makes that damn noise again.”
“What noise?” I asked over my book.
“You haven’t heard of it?” she asked, seeming glad to find an innocent subject to talk…
to look hard
to see traces of me
and fragments of you
So, I forced my luck
to get in touch with you,
to talk about life
since conversations can lead
big or small.
I grew up — sans toi —
no contributions on your part
to the woman I am today,
other than the damage,
and half-healed wounds
you left on my being.
But I try to change that,
a quick swabbing of
the bloody scratches
with some tincture
and sewing the wounds shut
with crooked stitches,
to pretend like everything
is sunshine and daisies,
You sit over there;
and I grab some paper,
to catch the light to draw
a word picture of you.
Today, my muse is you:
the culprit of the painful wound
recently chiseled in me.
You wouldn’t know how my melancholy
has accidentally spilled all over the page,
and left dark smudges
only I can see.
I thought if
I loved you enough
you’d love me back.
All this time, I hoped
you’d see me.
But all you could see was yourself,
your own, invented glamour.
Of course, I had to love you,
such a natural response…