still my chest aches
invigorated by the moments when I bottled your laughter
lying here, terrified of forgetting
even more scared of remembering
now all we have is an emptiness of words
can you remember what my voice sounds like?
'evermore' is a bullet embedded in my skin
About the Creator
Poppy
poetry in progress
Reader insights
Nice work
Very well written. Keep up the good work!
Top insight
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 24 hours ago in Poets
Public Announcement Challenge Winners
For the Public Announcement Challenge, writers were asked to work inside voices built for control. These were notices, warnings, and updates meant to inform rather than confess. The strongest entries committed to that form and didn't break from it. Corporate memos, formal government alerts, and internal policy language were held consistently, allowing emotion, fear, grief, or humor to surface indirectly through pressure rather than declaration. The following poems recognize the voice of authority, and let human feeling slip through despite all its rules and restraint.
By Vocal Curation Team3 days ago in Resources
Comments (9)
Your lines have such an emotional impact on me when I read- excellent work!
Oof this is heavy. You’ve really gone in on the idea of “silence as absence” in relationships or after them, and “'evermore' is a bullet embedded in my skin” is a wonderful line. It’s that idea of something that was supposed to bind, now wounding. Good luck in the challenge Poppy!
*Deep sigh* Well that was heavy... that final line just ended me, it hit so hard. That's going to echo in my mind for a while. Great work Poppy!
Beautiful and heartbreaking. Great work!
Well done… different slant on the challenge ✅
Holy cow this poem stabs at heart and inner emotions!
Powerful ending!!!💕❤️❤️
Very nice Poppy. Excellent work!
Beautiful, and that last line hits hard. Well done.