Sam(antha)
22
writer

i have very mixed feelings about sparkly nail polish.
Lazy Wet Thursday Without the Metaphors
newdukeofyork: You write as if you are painting a picture. It's awesome.

Easily one of the best compliments I’ve ever received on my work. Thank you very much!

Jan 16th at 8PM / tagged: my writing. writing. fiction. poetry. prose. / reblog / 4 notes

Chiaroscuro

By Samantha Dupler

There was a boy in the elevator.

He had a scruffy brown beard and scruffy brown hairs that curled down in nice ways. I liked his peeling leather lapels and the way his eyes looked when they looked at mine. There was something about his Adam’s apple too, the way it jutted out quietly like a weathered cliff, in that oddly attractive way that only certain boys have.

There was a girl in the elevator too.

I don’t remember much about her, other than the fact that she stood in front of him and a little to the left, with pale orange hair that reached halfway down her back, and she breathed along with us (us!) in the elevator. The rest of her features were blurred out to me, darkened and dull in the shadow of the boy.

And then the door slid open on some floor that wasn’t mine, and they got off, but not together, and I watched as she went left and he went right. I stayed inside, going up to someplace where he wouldn’t be, somewhere that didn’t matter very much at all. So I saw his shadow get swallowed by the private sunset of the humming hallway lights; such a shame, such a beautiful shape.

The Ugly Harbinger

By Samantha Dupler

I love your smile in the harsh light
—the rotting raspberry swell of your lips.

I want to feel you,
Feel the blood and bones beneath your skin,
All warm and rough and flesh
—solid, like bark,
(I’m so glad you’re not a ghost)

I want to be your sweater—
Coffee mug,
Collared shirt,
Black leather jacket with the nicks on the back,
Blue water bottle,
Orange hat.

So in short, I’m sorry that I stole your pen,
And used it to write this poem.
(I swear I didn’t mean to)
—Besides, it’s not worthy of my hand.

Nov 20th at 2AM / tagged: poetry. poem. writing. my writing. love. / reblog / 8 notes

Chiaroscuro

There was a boy in the elevator.

He had a scruffy brown beard and scruffy brown hairs that curled down in nice ways. I liked his peeling leather lapels and the way his eyes looked when they looked at mine. There was something about his Adam’s apple too, the way it jutted out quietly like a weathered cliff, in that oddly attractive way that only certain boys have.

There was a girl in the elevator too.

I don’t remember much about her, other than the fact that she stood in front of him and a little to the left, with pale orange hair that reached halfway down her back, and she breathed along with us (us!) in the elevator. The rest of her features were blurred out to me, darkened and dull in the shadow of the boy.

And then the door slid open on some floor that wasn’t mine, and they got off, but not together, and I watched as she went left and he went right. I stayed inside, going up to someplace where he wouldn’t be, somewhere that didn’t matter very much at all. So I saw his shadow get swallowed by the private sunset of the humming hallway lights; such a shame, such a beautiful shape.

(I wrote this bit of prose for a school publication last year)

The Ugly Harbinger

I love your smile in the harsh light
—the rotting raspberry swell of your lips.

I want to feel you,
Feel the blood and bones beneath your skin,
All warm and rough and flesh
—solid, like bark,
(I’m so glad you’re not a ghost)

I want to be your sweater—
Coffee mug,
Collared shirt,
Black leather jacket with the nicks on the back,
Blue water bottle,
Orange hat.

So in short, I’m sorry that I stole your pen,
And used it to write this poem.
(I swear I didn’t mean to)
—Besides, it’s not worthy of my hand.

(Source: thecatharsis.net)

The Ugly Harbinger

I love your smile in the harsh light

—the rotting raspberry swell of your lips.

I want to feel you,

Feel the blood and bones beneath your skin,

All warm and rough and flesh

—solid, like bark,

(I’m so glad you’re not a ghost)

I want to be your sweater—

Coffee mug,

Collared shirt,

Black leather jacket with the nicks on the back,

Water bottle,

Hat.

So in short, I’m sorry that I stole your pen,

And used it to write this poem.

(I swear I didn’t mean to)

—Besides, it’s not worthy of my hand.

Lazy Wet Thursday Without the Metaphors

It rained pieces of silver outside my window frame,

Each precious metal bullet pinging off your arms,

Stretched tree branch strong.

Can you feel this? I want to scream,

Can you feel this, you and me?

Maybe I should wear more eyeliner,

Penciled black and smeared on thick.

Or perhaps just streak my hair,

With cranberry and crimson and flaming maroon.

Then maybe you’d see me in some new way.

And I wouldn’t be saying this if it weren’t for your face,

And your arms with those sculptor’s hands.

Mold me, I say. Shape me how you want me to be.

And tonight my heart beats

Elastic in my chest,

Caught in the clamshell swirl

Of all things worth remembering.

Gem-encrusted and starlight bright.

Thin Ice

A smile cracks his face like skates on thin ice,
teeth like glaciers, so white, they’re so cool.

So now what happens, now that we’ve grown up?
Do we fade into the arms of faceless figures
on wood stilts?
Never did feel the slick comma curl of your hair,
dipping below the brown brambles of broad brows.

So with regard to your face and the way that it looks,
I wish you wouldn’t smile at me like that.
(You know it makes me feel as awkward as March—)
sandwiched between snow and sun.

Chiaroscuro

There was a boy in the elevator.

He had a scruffy brown beard and scruffy brown hairs that curled down in nice ways. I liked his peeling leather lapels and the way his eyes looked when they looked at mine. There was something about his Adam’s apple too, the way it jutted out quietly like a weathered cliff, in that oddly attractive way that only certain boys have.

There was a girl in the elevator too.

I don’t remember much about her, other than the fact that she stood in front of him and a little to the left, with pale orange hair that reached halfway down her back, and she breathed along with us (us!) in the elevator.

And then the door slid open on some floor that wasn’t mine, and they got off, but not together, and I watched as she went left and he went right. So I saw his shadow get swallowed by the private sunset of the humming hallway lights; such a shame, such a beautiful shape.