Catarine Hancock - the boys i’ve loved and the end of the world

the boys i've loved and the end of the world catarine hancock to all young writers and poets it has taken me a long time to develop my writing style. when i first started writing poetry, shortly before i entered high school, my poems were full of clichs and every line oozed unoriginality. it took me several months, nearly a year, before i really began to get a feel for writing prose and poetry. even now, after four years, i am still changing and growing as a writer. my message to you is to not give up. if nobody seems to like it, keep writing. even when you have writer's block and nothing you write is decent, keep writing. that is how you grow. emily dickinson did not stop writing. sara teasdale did not stop writing. robert frost and edgar allen poe did not stop writing. pablo neruda, maya angelou, e.e. cummings, langston hughes; these are our predecessors. and as for the poets who come after us: we are theirs. something i have learned through sharing my writing is that oftentimes, your writing will never be good enough in your eyes. you will always find something missing. it is very rare that you will write something that will make you say, "there is nothing i would add to this. it has portrayed everything i have wanted it to." but that doesn't mean it isn't good enough in the eyes of somebody else. to somebody else, that poem, that piece of prose, could be exactly what they are feeling. it could resonate with them. it could make them feel . and that, above all else, is the most important part of writing. if you write with feeling, and if you can make somebody else smile, or cry, or think, then you have succeeded. i hope that i have succeeded, just as i hope you will too. for my followers. you have given me more than i could have ever asked for. thank you. to the first i was full of words and you were the one who cut deep enough to unleash them. not a day goes by that i don't thank you for it. -c.h. i didnt think this needed an explanation but im going to explain it anyway i write about love because it is what i know i write about pain because it is what ive felt i write about abuse because it is what ive been through i write about politics because it is what i care about i write about what i have experienced i write about what makes me quake with anger heave with sadness smile with joy i will never write for anybody but myself i will never write something that i dont mean i know my art will not reach everybody and i have never expected it to but i expect no i demand respect as an artist because that is what i deserve -c.h. eclipse we looked at each other like we were the sun and the moon locked in a gravitational war, bound to cross and bound to break apart. to you, i was the entire night sky. to me, you were just another forlorn stargazer. but you looked at me like i was your whole universe. i cried because i was full of dead stars and broken debris, but you still called me beautiful. you were the flaming meteor about to send me up in smoke but i kissed you anyways. there's a burning crater on my lips from your touch and i think i may always be in love with you. we looked at each other like we were the sun and the moon and we knew we'd only eclipse for so long. we knew all along that soon we would be apart, just waiting for gravity to bring us back together again. -c.h you're the only one who doesn't haunt me i think i saw you in my dreams, my dear, it brought us back to the time, when life was far less complicated, and you would say, "you're mine." you were by far the only one i loved, but that was way back then, for we walked on a long old rope that was paper, paper thin. it snapped and sent us falling down, i felt you slip away from me, but that's okay, for when i landed, there was something beautiful to see. i saw the gold around my feet and the darkness up above; sometimes the key to joy is falling out of love. i think i saw you in my dreams, my dear, and i learned a thing or two, i have a soulmate, he's there somewhere, but that soulmate isn't you. -c.h. us pertaining to a rainbow red: when i first met you, all i saw was the red of your shirt and the plumpness of your lips, and the first thing i thought was i want you, i want you, i want you . you asked for my name and i blushed bright red, you looked at me and said oh god, i want you, i want you, i want you , or at least you said it in your head, because i swear i saw it in your eyes. orange: your touch burned me like fire and i couldn't get away from your scorching heat no matter how hard i tried and god, did i love it . you tasted sour and sweet at the same time, but nothing tasted as good or sizzled as much as when you first kissed me. yellow: euphoria fell short of describing me when you were there and my laughter would bubble over from my lips, and you made me so happy . i would trace my fingers across your jaw because you glowed, oh my, you glowed like a sun and to me, you were the equivalent of a star. green: we were blossoming and ever changing, but we walked to each other's heartbeats and i could feel you wrapping around me like a vine, but i didn't even notice they were crushing me until they were roped around my lungs. blue: i woke up the next morning with bruises on my face and fingerprints around my throat, but it was all metaphorical because while your hands never touched me that night, your words slapped me as if they had. i spent the day hiding from you in the bathtub, afraid to look in the mirror, for i knew i was decaying. indigo: you didn't pick up your phone that night when i tried to call you while you were at work, and you didn't come home until one in the morning, and i shouldn't have over thought it, but it's hard to over think something that's written all over the walls and in this case, written in lipstick on your neck. violet: you handed me my suitcase one sunday morning and told me to pack my things, and i thought this was god's punishment to me for not believing, because maybe if i had gone to church that day the inevitable would have been delayed a little bit longer. i asked you twelve more times if you were sure you wanted me to leave, but all you did was stare at me with shadows under your eyes, because maybe, i had been sucking the brightness out of you all this time, too. black: i left months ago, and i am still haunted by you at night, even if i close my eyes and pretend that i'm not here anymore. the only place i ever dreamt of being was by your side, and now that that dream is crushed, what is there left to want, and even after all this time, i still want you, i still want you, i still want you . -c.h. rule #1: never cry over a fuckboy (how to get over someone in a month and a half) week one: rinse your body of his touch. drown yourself in hot water from the shower, choke on the steam that rises from your red, soaking flesh. scrub yourself raw, until you have shed every last skin cell that could have been touched by his fingertips. week two: take his jacket and drench it in gasoline. light fire to it in the middle of the night, let the smoke swirl in your lungs. inhale, exhale, the smell of him is leaving. leave the burnt remains on his doorstep. week three: get drunk, turn off your phone, so you won't be able to call him. leave it in the other room. watch sit-coms and soap operas until four in the morning. laugh and cry until you throw up. it won't be because of him. week four: hold the necklace he bought you close to your chest. remember. you can remember the good so long as you don't forget the bad. break the clasp with a hammer and place it back in its velvet box. week five: buy yourself a new dress. put it on and call the boy who's been chasing you since grade school, ask him if he wants to go out. he'll say yes. take him to dinner and hold his hand, but do not kiss. adjust. adjust slowly, carefully. week six: call him. when he picks up, ask him how he's doing. when he says he's doing fine, tell him you're glad. when he asks why, tell him you were just checking and hang up without a goodbye. he will call back that night, and the next, and the next. but he already lost you, and you are okay. -c.h. bias when i am talking to a boy and he finds out that i write poetry, the first thing he asks is, "will you ever write about me?" i tell him honestly, "hopefully, i won't." and he asks, "why?" it's my answer that always catches them. "because, if i end up writing about you, it means that all the promises you made me ended up being broken and maybe you're somebody i shouldn't have spent so much time on if all you were going to do in the end is break my heart." if they're smart, they call me on it. tell me that every relationship is worth it because you always have something to learn. in the end, these are the boys i write about most. but if they love me, they stay quiet. because the thought of them breaking my heart is enough to suck the words from their tongues. these are the boys i don't write about. not because they aren't there, but because i cast the fatal blow. and even now, i have never been good at saying sorry. -c.h oceans, the future i watch the brown waves stumble against the shore. the water sloshes against my shins, hot and oily. plastic bags wrap around my ankles like seaweed, bottle caps crunch under my toes; the new seashell. i walk along the glass-bedded sand and trace my feet through soda tabs. a turtle limps by, its neck strangled by a six pack ring. i am so thrilled to see an animal, i don't even notice it can barely breathe. -c.h. for the girls with the frizzy hair and bitten nails and the boys with bushy eyebrows and marionette limbs: