My mother hated poets.
"You can always read people, Cara, with what they do when they think they have time." She used to say to me, after two glasses of Chardonnay on a Wednesday evening, thirteen year old me telling myself that she will be alright that drinking on a weekday was probably normal, and after all, it was the blood of christ.
"If they play poker, they're the ones who still believe in fate and the unfuckedupness of the universe,"
Yes, inebriated Carolynn Follet cussed openly and smiled too much.
"People who read too much are looking for a way out, people who sleep too much have found the way out, people who paint want control, but darling, poets are the ones you should be afraid of."
I used to take her advice with a grain of salt, because I knew that what she said most of the time wasn't her. It wasn't who she used to be. Instead her drunken syllables were a mere apparition, a painful reminder for me and the people around of the person she used to be.
Carolynn Renée Follet used to be powerful.
But even the mighty fall.
And oh how Carolynn had fallen. But this isn't about my mother. She deserves more than some shitty appearance in this story. And before I leave this planet I'll bring her story justice.
But right now this is about what she said, and how I hadn't understood something vital; she was right.
"Poets seek to destroy. they unravel themselves and feed off of pain, they're architects of their own ruination Never love a poet, darling. They will hurt you just to see what your voice in pain sounds like. They'll break your heart just to see how you would look broken. They're dangerous. Because they sell their soul for art. And a soulless person knows no limit. A soulless person can never love. "
At that time I thought she was in her usual stupor of momentary madness, madness slightly tinged with hatred for my father who used to write poetry.
But her words still echoed in my mind the day you told me you were a poet. I had dismissed the thoughts immediately, chiding myself for thinking something so stupid, and I remember smiling when you told me that someday you'll write me a poem.
And you did.
But now we're going to go back. We're going back to the last good day.
22nd August: the last good day.
Every relationship has one.
Where perhaps over candlelight you have that one moment where you catch yourself looking into his eyes for too long (those pools of gleaming liquid you used to write prose upon) or he says something and you can't stop laughing and you tell yourself that maybe you can forgive his sociopathic behavior and maybe he can forgive your lies and maybe there could be an us after this.
But then those rose tinted shades fall off. The candlelight gets blown away and the sun makes the moon dissipate like the hope you had in your heart.
You come back to face the music.
Or in our case, the pathetic spiral we had paved towards destruction that you called l'amour.
Luckily for us, our last good day played out so disgustingly clichéd it could be in a movie.
LES JEUNES AVEC LEUR YEUX
an overbearing teen movie with too many smiles, unrealistic situations and an evening that doesn't end well starring theodore archer, cara evelyn follet and their dying relationship.
scene: the beach, two teenagers sitting on the hood of a black car, the boy adorned in black, and the girl adorned in white. the moon is shining with a vengeance.
THEO: I liked today, Cara Evelyn. I really did.
(que for lead actor to smile vivaciously at the actress)
CARA: Me too.
(actress leans into the lead actor's shoulder)
THEO: You look beautiful today.
CARA: It's just the moonlight, Theo.
THEO: You're terribly self deprecating sometimes.
CARA: Ah but I make up for it with my fleeting bouts of narcissism.
THEO: I've taught you well, haven't I?
(actress lets out a laugh that makes the actor smile)
CARA: Absolutely.
THEO: By the way, I read your poem.
CARA: And how was it?
THEO: Brilliant. And I'm not just saying that so you'll make out with me.
(actress laughs)
CARA: Not bad for a first timer, eh.
THEO: Not at all. You could be the next avant garde Sylvia Plath.
CARA: And you could be my Ted Hughes.
THEO: That's not what I meant. and you know it.
CARA: Have you read this Mirror, by Sylvia Plath.
THEO: (closes eyes) Cara please, I'm sorry.
CARA: She wrote it when she found out about Ted's affair with Assia Wevill.
THEO: (silence, camera closes up at Cara who is looking at the ocean)
CARA: We know what happened with Sylvia. She stuck her head in an oven. But, do you know what happened to Assia?
THEO: No I do not.
CARA: (smiles brightly at Theo) She killed herself a few months later along with her daughter. She stuck her head in an oven too.
scene change: moonlight wanes as the sun comes up.
Fin.
The glasses are off, the sun is overhead and our sins are on display. And as you used to love saying, I'm a bitch, so I'm going to highlight yours for the world to see.
Theo, maybe you didn't know what you were getting yourself into.
Because if you thought even for a second that you could use me, well darling, if you're Ted Hughes and I'm Sylvia?
Guess whose poems are more remembered now anyways?
Sylvia's.
And Ted Hughes is known as the asshole who caused the death of a brilliant woman who fell too fast, too soon.
My mother was right. She always had been.
Poets were dangerous.
And now a poet will finish what you started.
******
hi fam comparatively fast update. ly all and lemme know what you thought about this. this story has more direction now and omg im happy. also this isnt edited at all. so forgive me.
