Red Inked Poetry

I used to write poetry.

Nothing much, usually just some quick, morbid thing. It was quite unusual, but I normally only wrote it in red ink. It might have had something to do with the fact that I wanted the words to be special, much like I wanted to. I was the quiet type of person, which did not bode well with my desire to be perceived. You could say that I always wanted to be noticed, but I never did anything noticeable. I wasn’t exceptionally smart, I was just a little above average.

My friends used to read my poetry. I hated anyone but them reading it, really. From other people, I’d get a lopsided look and an odd stare. From them, I got thoughtful nods and sweet smiles. Some nights, my head was a breeding ground for things normally considered creepy. Marya and Alex were the only ones that really understood how somebody so quiet could be so messed up. But they cared about me anyway, and they only had good things to say.

Marya always told me stories that inspired my poetry. Something about a man who walked on the moon or a boy who spoke for the first time. Things so ordinary, yet they seemed like the most amazing things to ever happen when they came from her lips. She made the world sound beautiful.

Alex loved music. He always made me CDs that inspired me, as well. Whenever I went to his house, they always lined his sleek, white walls with their shiny cases. He said that he wanted to move great masses of people with his music someday. It was one of the most ambitious things imaginable. Or, rather, one of the most ambitious things I could imagine, anyways.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing this story. Maybe it’s because I want to practice my storytelling, like Marya always told me to do. Maybe I just wanted to be remembered when I die. Maybe it’s because I want to make something of myself before I’m gone. I’m still confused about a lot of things. But, one thing that I’m sure of, is that this isn’t a sob story. This isn’t a story of the sad little sick girl. I want this story to be one of first times, of love, of good things. But this is also a story of bad things. There’s no such thing as a happy ending, but there is a such thing as an okay ending. One that you’re fine with living in. So if you’re reading this, don’t expect everything to turn out perfect. What you’re allowed to expect, though, is that everything will turn out okay. I’m not saying it will, but I’m saying you’re allowed to think that.

I’m not sure where to start. I guess there were many places I could begin. At home, in bed. At school, in class. But I’m more of a “it was a dark and stormy night” type of girl. So that’s what I’m going to start with.

It was a dark and stormy night. Not the bad kind, either. I always kind of liked storms. They were beautiful, in a dark and grisly sort of way. The thunder and lightning made music, and brought people together. Away from the stress of normal life. I wouldn’t have minded spending every night listening to the soft sound of the rain against the asphalt.

Everyone who knew anything about me knew I was practically in love with the rain, so it was no surprise to Marya when I answered the phone in my unusually chipper voice, high-pitched sounds becoming even higher as the noise was broadcasted to my friend. “‘Ey?”

“Ro,” the young woman responded to me, clearly delighted that I wasn’t too busy frolicking in the rain to answer my phone. I trapped the phone between my shoulder and my ear, standing from my place on the bed so that I may look out the window. “D’ya want to come over?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, wrinkling my nose. “It’s late. And mom doesn’t like driving in the rain.”

“Just walk. You live ten minutes away by foot. It’s an excuse to walk in the rain.”

I bit my lip, unsure. Walking in the rain was potentially really dangerous — but Marya wanted me to come over. She never asked a lot of me. The least I could do for her was to go over the one time she prompts me to. So I nodded, but soon realized that she couldn’t see me nod, so I muttered a quiet, “Okay. I’ll be over in a little while.” I hung up the phone and quickly slipped on my bright pink rain boots — mostly because they were the only ones I had that fit me at the time — and padded down the stairs. Calling out to my mom, I walked to the hook by the door that held all of our jackets and promptly slipped my arms through the designated holes. My mother popped up five seconds later, poking her head around the corner.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going over to Marya’s.”

She frowned. “I don’t like driving in the rain.”

“No, no, no! I’m gonna walk. So you don’t have to drive. Marya wants me over.”

“Walking is dangerous — ”

“It’ll be fine. I might sleep over. That sound like a plan?” I leaned over and kissed my mother on the cheek, then patted her on the shoulder lightly. “It’s okay. Bye. Love you!” I gave all the generic farewells and headed off, pulling my hood over my dirty blonde hair so that it wouldn’t frizz. In the night, I liked to believe I looked like they do in the really bad romance movies. Tall, dark, beautiful. And, as my feet splashed in the puddles, and my hands held my hood tightly over my head, I sighed.

Maybe, one day, my life would be worthy of one of those really bad romance movies.