"Lucky Charms"

this is supposed to be a stylized poem, ie a story poem if you will.

I was five and he was seven.  Our moms were still friends back then, so we used to be thrown together in a playroom at least twice every week.  He used to pull my hair, and I would respond with a swift kick to the shins.  Mostly I did it because I liked watching my new sneakers light up, but it was also sort of satisfying to feel my foot connect with bone for some reason.  Sometimes we would abandon our tugging and kicking game to color.  I always stayed inside the lines.  He opted to scribble all over the page before holding it up for my viewing pleasure like it was a newly discovered Picasso painting.  I told him it looked stupid.  He told me I was stupid.  And the kicking and screaming would begin again.  I hated him, and he hated me.
I was seven and he was nine.  I guess we just got so used to being around each other than even when our moms stopped forcing play-dates on us, we still spent all out time together.  Our days consisted of watching cartoons and chasing each other around the swing-set at the park.  He taught me all the names of the Power Rangers 'til I could recite them on a moment's notice.  I showed him it was much cooler to paint each fingernail a different color.  He became my own personal manicurist by the time he turned eleven.  We sat at the kitchen table, eating our routine meal of Lucky Charms in matching bowls.  I never told him, but i hated the soggy marshmallows and that the milk always turned pink if you didn't eat it fast enough.  It was his favorite cereal, and I didn't have the heart to tell him.  I liked him, and he liked me.
I was eleven and he was thirteen.  We sat together at the kitchen table he now shared with a single father, at meals only.  The apartment that encircled us now was new and unfamiliar, and there were no Lucky Charms in the cabinets staring down at us from above our heads.  If they could eavesdrop they would have seen me pretending not to notice the tears streaming silently down his face.  They would have seen me carefully and methodically painting every one of my fingernails a different color. They would have seen the unspoken words that seemed to radiate between us, the apologies and the broken promises disappearing out of our mouths like the steady stream of smoke that was always there no matter how hard I tried to stop him.  I almost always painted my own nails now.  His parents had divorced that year, after a decade of what we all believed would be forever and always.  He hated his mother for what she had done, and told me he was glad I was the only girl in his life now.  We promised each other that we would never end up like that.  I made us sandwiches to take his mind off of it, cutting the crusts off just the way he liked it.  I never told him, but the crust was my favorite part.  I loved him, and he loved me. 
I was fifteen and he was seventeen.  I wasn't the only person he cried to about his problems now.  He said he was just talking to the doctor to help him deal with his anger.  Somehow he just got angrier.  The first time he yelled at me like that, he compared me to his mother.  Whatever I did he would find a way to say that i was just like her.  We both knew the truth.  The routine solidified with each of his emotional outbreaks, til i began to wonder if he actually saw me when he looked into my eyes.  Of if he saw his mother, and everything she had done to make him this way.  He may have hated her for ruining his family, but I hated her for ruining him.  Once yelling wasn't good enough for him anymore, he made sure to get his point across to me another way.  I learned to stay away when he stared yelling.  I never told him, but I still felt the pain even after the bruises were gone.  The first few times it happened I told myself he didn't mean it.  I justified it in my mind by remembering us as the kids we were, coloring and playing tag.  I sat next to him on the swing-set of our childhood.  The chains creaked back and forth as I tried to rock away my feelings.  His had shook as he brought cancer to his mouth, blowing clouds of smoke towards my waiting face.  the smoke circled and curled around my neck, as if to retrace the materialized marks that his most recent outburst of anger had made.  He pulled me into a hug that I wanted to escape, but didn't know how to.  He said he didn't know what love was anymore.  Obviously I was no exception because for each time he told me he loved me, I acquired another mark on my skin to prove otherwise.  Forever and always had to end sometime, didn't it?  I loved him, but he didn't love me.
Now I'm seventeen, and you are nineteen.  The memories of our superficial fights are still traceable, but only on my skin.  My nails are the all the same color now, and you can't remember the last time you ate Lucky Charms or a sandwich with no crust.  I watch as you cling to the things that pull you further and further away from reality, and whenever I look at you, I can't remember that kid who taught me all about Power Rangers.  There are so many things I wish I could say to you, but my voice has become choked and hard now.  Maybe its better that some things are left unsaid.  I stand at the corner of 1st and Congress Street, watching you get our of your dark red car.  The smoke that billows out behind you as you open the door obstructs your future, and my view of it.  You take my hand in yours, and if your eyes I see that you are still desperately clinging onto the things that are pulling us apart.  You hold them in between our hands; nestled in the space between my small palm you transfer your pain to me.  And though the things you grasp prick and tear at me, I don't let go. With my palm bleeding, I hold your hand. 
You say you don't know what love is.  Time and time again I answer you, tell you that i am your love and we are forever and always.  I guess forever and always always ends.  I'm sorry that I couldn't convince you.

I should have only had to tell you
once.

Reviews

[Daniel Atkinson]

I was hooked immediately. You wrote such an emotional story, with brilliantly drawn characters and a strong narrative. The contrast between the ages and the little nuances you wrote with each new one was also a nice touch. As for the ending, I really wouldn't change anything, except maybe to take the last sentence and bring it down a line, so it's by itself. It would heighten the impact and stand out against all of the other full-length paragraphs.

This was very well done. Nice work.

[Luke L]

whoa! holy s**t that was powerful! it reminded me of a girl I knew from Winnipeg, I mean I wasn't THAT guy, but I can picture her going down that road.

[Ken Yen]

you have real talent. this piece was so easy to read. i found myself floating on the joy of their youth and could feel myself sinking as the relationship fell apart. i was even hoping for an 11th hour resolution. excellent work.

[goldenblack]

i could use some help on the ending everyone. I want it to be powerful and striking, since in the last paragraph i am talking directly to the guy that the story is about for the first time in the narrative. I feel like i have the right sentances but maybe rearranging them or recreating the ideas at the end would help make it more powerful? im open to any suggestions you all might have, i really am proud of this piece and want to make it better
please leave suggestions!
peace.

[Mark]

Good progression and escalation. I like the repetition of the ages ie. I was eleven and you were thirteen etc.

[.......]

Wow this kept me spell bound for a while,
Such amazing detail and imagery. I enjoyed this.
Deep and emotional. Very nicely written.