It's textbook.

xeroxist asked: YOUR WRITING IS ONE OF THE BEST THERE IS ON TUMBLR. Gosh sorry for the caps can't help it :) but really

AHHH, thank you so much! :D

I’m curious—out of the pieces of mine that you’ve read so far, which is your favorite?

This goes to any of my readers—please tell me! I’d love to know. 

the-x-imprint asked: and once in a while i would carefully type out 'anatomyofthewrittenword' and wait for the page to load, hoping against hope that you never changed the url. thank goodness. don't, unless you tell me first. so i know where to look for inspirations in the middle of the night. keep on being awesome. love, X

This is such a beautiful message and it makes me feel wonderful inside. Thank you for being such a lovely and loyal reader. I am so grateful to have people such as you reading my work.

P.S. (I don’t think I’ll change anatomy anytime soon. I may flip-flop on my personal blog’s URL, but anatomy has become a part of me…it’s a name that’s made itself. I’m grateful for that, and I wouldn’t change it on any whim. But if I do, you’ll be the first to know.)

Anonymous asked: May I know, what do you read that gives you this beautiful flow of language?

Firstly - thank you :)

Secondly - I read Harry Potter and Little Women, The Phantom Tollbooth, The Little Prince, To Kill a Mockingbird, fantasy and fiction, Beka Cooper and Joy Luck Club, poetry, prose, Charles Dickens, Lois Lowry, John Green…

But most of all I read thoughts and feelings and emotions and wistful longings and imagined stories and all of the inarticulate, strange, and beautiful things of life. 

I really don’t even read that much. I just like to think.

i love when it rains
     at night
because the dark strip of road outside
turns into a 
smash hit Broadway theater,
     a stage that doubles as
a portal, into beautiful and
magical worlds—
and i can just look outside and imagine
all of the wonderful and exciting acts
that must play out under the amber lights of the
     softly sparkling
dew-hazed streetlights
in parallel universes that
i can’t see.

and maybe,
if i look hard enough,
i’ll be able to
                                            escape
into the glittering spines of
spell-touched, English storybooks.

(and if i can’t,
i’ll just use my pen
                                             to jimmy the lock
and go in through a window.) 

They call it the Lonely House. Not exactly the best name for real estate, but, then again, the people who live there aren’t all that choosy.

On the first day of her new life, the sangria girl pulls up to her new home and sits in the car for a while, gazing up at the trim, well-kept building. Beecherhouse Apartments. The complex stands alone in a vast parking lot, separated from the road by a rusting iron gate and a long drive up a gravelly path. It looks nice enough—surrounded by shrubs and tropical flowers, and not a shady vagrant in sight. So she gets out, loads all of her things into her arms (they all fit into a single cardboard box) and heads into the Lonely House.

Over the first month, the sangria girl begins to realize that they don’t call it the Lonely House because the building looks lonely (a lighthouse in a sea of asphalt)—they call it the Lonely House because the people there are. Never before in her life has she met such tragically broken people. At first, she’s afraid of them (maybe because she’s afraid of becoming like them—she’s too young to be that sad. Only twenty-one and already on her own.). From fear, it’s a fast descent into pity, curiosity, and then, finally, empathy. Empathy for the people with the lost souls. Maybe it’s because she’s one herself. 

Her apartment (number 216) is sparse, but comfortable enough. Its only defining feature are the wall-to-ceiling windows that span the living room and look out over the massive parking lot. In the first days after moving in, she spends a lot of time in front of those windows, watching people come and go below. Watching life crawl slowly by around the base of the Lonely House.

On her floor, an old woman lives in the apartment two doors down from hers. In her mind, she comes to call her the “40’s woman”. The sangria girl has only ever seen the 40’s woman on Wednesday and Friday mornings. On these days, every morning at nine, the old woman leaves her apartment in a printed dress and veiled pillbox hat that look as if they’ve been pulled straight out of the World War II days. She makes her way slowly down the stairs (she never uses the elevator) and goes out into the parking lot. And every Wednesday and Friday morning, a yellow taxi cab with a broken roof light is there, waiting for her. The old woman eases herself into the taxi, closes the door behind her, and the cab leaves the lot, to return exactly three hours later, at eleven o’clock. Every Wednesday and Friday morning. Without fail. 

Across from the 40’s woman lives an introverted middle-aged man, who jealously hoards memories like some people hoard secrets. Not his own, though—other people’s. Broken typewriters, pawnshop rings, chipped lockets, old diaries from the Great Depression and older… Once the sangria girl came out of her apartment to find him trying to buy the veiled blue pillbox hat off of the 40’s woman. The old woman rejects him in a voice that’s like river water and the man retreats, but for a moment the door to his apartment is wide-open and she catches a glimpse of the interior. Hung upon the walls are scrolls of parchment, embroidered tapestries, jewelry that look as if they could be family heirlooms and instruments that have long since lost their gloss. Beautiful little desks line the walls, Victorian writing desks that could have once belonged to wistful little girls. Oddly enough, she doesn’t find anything even remotely creepy about the dust and dying luster that crowds the brief snapshot that she catches of the inside of the man’s apartment. As the door slams closed and the hall is silent once again, she muses to herself that it is simply sad. A beautiful, jealous sort of sadness. She calls him the collector.

And then. Oh, and then. And then there is the boy next door. Out of the four of them on the floor, he is the one who travels the most frequently to the outside world. And he is the only one who ever brings anyone back with him. At first, she thinks that he is the only one who’s not lonely in the collection of homes (and stories) called the Lonely House. He  goes out every day, and he brings back girls. A lot of girls. A new one every Tuesday, in fact. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Pretty glamour girls and smoky danger seekers. Nightclub singers and diner waitresses. All with straight shiny hair and feathery dark makeup and polished stiletto heels. It briefly occurs to her young and wandering mind that he might be a serial killer of some sort, but she always sees the girls leaving on Wednesday mornings, looking if not happy then at least contented. Most of the time it’s curiously strange, seeing the thin, devastatingly beautiful girls with their rouge and darkly painted eyes coinciding with the somber figure of the 40’s woman, but the novelty quickly fades as she becomes slowly infatuated with the boy next door. 

She often sees him leaving in the mornings, and she can’t help but catalogue his features in the back of her mind. He is a little older than her, she reasons. Mid to late twenties, maybe. Long, dark hair, that curls behind his ears and makes him look like a Greek prince, paired with a sharp nose, sloped jaw and crooked half-smile. A tiny scar above his right eyebrow. Glittering secrets in the hazel mire of his eyes. 

And then, one day, they run into each other while leaving their apartments at the same time (she to work at a quaint bay-side restaurant, he to wherever it is that objects of infatuation go). He looks at her and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Who are you?”

She just stares at him for what feels like the longest time; and then, without thinking, she blurts out the name that she’s been referring to herself as ever since she left home (her old home, the home of idyllic Southern manners and an oppressive, unbalanced mother). “Sangria,” she says, and winces as soon as it’s out.

The grin on his face widens. “‘Sangria’?” he echoes, and laughter bubbles up through his voice, like bubbles in clear soda.

She flushes as pink as the watermelon flamingo flowers that adorn the lot downstairs and whispers, not meeting his eyes, “My mother liked to drink. And sangria was her favorite.” She does not share her childhood memories of mixing batches of sangria in the kitchen while her mother lies, moaning from a perpetual headache and the pain of a wasted life, on the porch outside. She does not share that, even after cutting ties and fleeing to Florida, she adopts the name as one last attempt to gain her approval (even though they haven’t spoken in months, and probably never will again). 

This time, he lets a chuckle escape from the corner of his mouth, like a firefly let free from capture at childish hands. He leans in just slightly, the stereotypical move of cool-guy lady-killers since the dance era of the 70’s, but it does its job perfectly in unnerving her and drawing her in all at once. “Sangria is my favorite, too,” he murmurs, and leaves her there with a shiver in her spine.

From then on, he gives her a little grin every time they pass in the halls. For weeks, she watches the Tuesday girls come and go, wondering, wondering. Why so many, and why so brief? And why, always, on Tuesdays?

At last, she strikes up the nerve to ask him. On a cold Wednesday morning, she is leaving for work and he is walking his latest conquest out. He sees her, smiles, and waves the girl on his arm on; the girl shrugs, detaches herself from him, pecks him on the cheek, and leaves. He draws near to her, and greets her with his smiling voice: “Sangria.”

He looks especially like the tragic hero that day, so she says it quickly, before she loses her nerve. “She was pretty.”

He quirks an inquisitive eyebrow. “Who?”

She stares at him, disbelieving. “That girl, the one that just left.”

“Oh.” He smiles. “Yes.”

“I’m…curious.” She exhales and nervously twines her fingers together. “You—you seem to bring home a girl every…Tuesday. Is there a—a reason?”

His eyes dim for a moment, and she’s terrified that she’s crossed a line; but a split-second later, the smile returns in full force. “A girl every Tuesday,” he says, his tone as light and easy as ever, “for the day she left me at the altar.” Then he nods cordially to her and walks away, leaving her, for the second time, stunned and alone.

After that, he only nods to her in the hallway; gone are the sly little smiles and touchy-feely looks. She sighs softly and resigns herself to an existence of watching him from afar. It’s alright, though. Maybe it’s what she’s learned about him, but he’s never any less beautiful from afar. In the time that passes after they last spoke, the 40’s woman invites her in for tea, and she accepts; and for an afternoon she sits there and is enthralled by magical stories of war-strapped era that somehow nevertheless still came alive with swing dancing and moonlighting and courting under the city streetlights. The old woman tells her about the taxi cab driver that still brings her around the city today (her nephew, orphaned at age seven), and the sangria girl comes to appreciate something that she no longer has. She makes friends with the collector, and realizes that all he ever really needed was someone to talk to; and in return, he gives her a pretty pearl brooch that once belonged to his grandmother, and tells her that she’s his only friend. She sits in her apartment and paints her nails the deep burgundy color of sangria, and listens to the old-timey music that drifts through the walls from the 40’s woman’s apartment.

And then, one Wednesday morning, no stiletto-heeled girl leaves the boy next door’s apartment. She delays leaving for work, just to wait and see, but nothing. The door remains closed the entire morning. At last, she leaves an hour late, mind buzzing with questions and possibilities.

The next week, it is the same. And the next week…

Late one Tuesday afternoon, she comes back from work, exhausted and dull-eyed from her early morning to seven p.m. shift. She is returning just as he is leaving, and he looks faintly startled to see her, spine bent and clothes crumpled, struggling to fit the key into her doorknob with clumsy, tired fingers. 

“Sangria,” he says, almost like he hadn’t meant to.

She turns and can’t help but lean against her apartment door as she flashes him a tired smile. “Hey.”

His eyes skip over her, like stones on water. “You look…”

“Like a mess?” She laughs softly and rakes a hand through her loose hair. “Yeah. I always do.”

There is a lull, and for what seems like a hundred heartbeats, they stare at each other, and something passes between them. She is surprised when he is the first to glance away and clear his throat. “No,” he says. “You never do.”

She bites backs a smile. “Thanks.” She takes in his trim, orderly appearance and asks, almost teasingly, “Going out for a night on the town?”

The old chuckle, warm and sly, comes back into his throat. “No. Just…going for a walk.” He looks at her and pauses. “Do you…do you want to come in?”

She is surprised into standing up straight. “What?”

He meets her eyes and gestures to his apartment. “Do you want to come in?” he repeats, more firmly this time. “You look like you could use some dinner.” His mouth quirks into a grin. “I’m an excellent cook.”

She finds that she wants to. Oh, yes, she wants to. And yet… She thinks of Tuesday girls and Wednesday mornings and asks, hesitantly, “Is it alright if—not today? Can we do it…tomorrow?” Her voice rises with hopeful inflection, and she prays that he’ll know what she means, and maybe even—maybe even—

He meets her eyes, and a smile splits his face—but not one of the coy, playful smiles that he used on his Tuesday girls, or used to flash her in the hall. A real smile, wide and genuine and—happy. Happy. He nods to her, and she detects something like respect in his voice as he agrees: “Tomorrow, then.”

They part ways for the night, he to his walk and she to her apartment. She closes the door behind her and grins softly to herself. Tomorrow it is, she thinks. Tomorrow it is.

That night, she sleeps dreamlessly and awakens on a realization. They are all connected, the residents of the Lonely House—the nostalgic 40’s woman, the wondering collector, the heartbroken boy next door and herself, the lost sangria girl—connected by the tangled-up strings of their sad fates and awry destinies. But a soul, no matter how lonely it may be, is still, and always will be, a soul—and all it ever needs, and all it ever will need, is another soul. 

wildflowerveins asked: it was really a beautiful piece. :] thank you! i like your username as well. :D

Truly, thank you :)

wildflowerveins asked: holy crap, that piece on the boy playing the piano and all that was astouuuuundingly good. really great work, i want it to be featured so badly just so that more writers and readers can see the beauty in that piece.

*beams with joy* Thank you so much! :D 

You hear that, lovely & majestic editors of the Prose tag? ;)

Ahaha to be honest I don’t even need a feature after a comment like that. I’m just happy you found it and liked it so much.

p.s. Oh god your username is gorgeous.

the boy sits in the half-lit drawing room, angrily playing the piano. his fingers skitter along the keys like stones on water, and he plays a tune that is beautiful and sad and eerie and hopeful all at once. the dust dances for him, lit by the spotlights that are the rays of sunlight, streaming through lace curtains. the dust dances for him; the dust dances only for him.

the girl walks in, adorned in frilly floral-printed skirts. she holds a glass of whiskey in her hand; the amber color of the liquid matches the amber color of her eyes. she sits down on a bench, folds one leg over the other, and waits to hear what’s wrong.

the boy finishes his song and turns around. “i’m tired of them,” he says, jealously eyeing the glass of whiskey in her hand. “i’m tired of the angsty teenage writers. i’m tired of the pieces about suicide and blood and death. i’m sick of pieces about sex and depression that get attention just because they’re about sex and depression. i want to read something that’s unique, damn it; i want to read something that hasn’t been done before, or at least not too many times before. i want something refreshing; i want change. this writer, this girl”—and he points—”this ‘Anatomy’ person, she’s written so many pieces about ‘him’ and ‘her’, ‘he’ and ‘she’. why can’t she just give them names, damn it? and the girls, they’re always so angsty, and the boys, they’re always so clueless. at least one of them smokes. there’s always some sort of sly, tension-filled banter, and then some dramatic revelation at the end. she uses the same words over and over again. and when she writes poetry, she uses way too much repetition. she tries to be gritty, but really she’s just a fifteen-year-old wannabe with a head full of sentences and fingers itching to type. come the fuck on. can’t anybody write anything else?” he slams his hands on the keys, and his voice rises to shout. “come on. come on!”

the girl smiles and tilts the whiskey to her lips.

mmaarriiss asked: What would you do with this line? "Then you will do that thing where you take a step back and realize I'm still the same." :) Dropping this into the hands of a few poets I follow, curious to see different interpretations. Sincerely, Marissa

Oof, sorry it took me so long to reply. This is my very quick and slightly hasty interpretation of the line—oh gosh, I’m not very good at this, hahaha. Enjoy, hopefully! :)

Vernacular

I see you every thirteen months,
just long enough to outgrow last meeting’s hairstyle—
or maybe adopt a new style of dress.
It may be just me,
but you’re different every time—
fresher clothes, fresher eyes, fresher face and life.

I’m jealous, perhaps.
I’m jealous.

But you greet me like you always did—
cheerfully, and with grace.
Somehow hoping that I’ve found happiness.
Somehow hoping that you’ll find forgiveness.

The sunny greeting is followed, almost always,
by a hug—your long friendly arms wrapping around my
fragile and brittle frame.
And,
for a moment,
it will feel like things have changed.
It will feel like I’ve forgiven you.
It will feel like things have healed.
It will feel the way that,
once upon a time,
we imagined that it would.

But then you will do that thing where
you take a step back, and realize I’m still the same—
see the mordancy in my eyes,
the acrid lime on my tongue,
the cancer and poppy seeds in my heart.
And you will realize nothing has changed.
You are still too light for me,
and I am still too dark.

Sarcasm
is like medicine—
good in small doses,
but poisonous in large amounts.

I learned that a long time ago,
with you.

I am still bitter,
and you are still happy,
and we are still
confused, uncomprehending,
bewildered by each other. 

Static and dynamic.
The changing wind,
and the restless sea.
No matter how they howl at each other,
neither will ever understand. 

gorzgorz asked: You are a beautiful writer and I hope that some day I will see a book on a shelf in a store with your name written underneath the title :)

THANK YOU SO MUCH.

Seriously, to all of you fantastic people who take the time not only to read my silly stories, but to send me such wonderful messages—you guys are the best. If I ever do publish, the front-page dedication will read “To all of my wonderful, kind, and incredibly supportive tumblr followers, who read what I wrote from the confines of my stuffy bedroom and liked it, despite its repetitiveness and occasional spelling mistakes.” <3