Work Text:
Poetry is a type of fiction.
It's a different medium to the same end: telling a story, making the reader feel something for the words printed to the page. It's hardly different from writing a book, albeit a very short one, save for the style and schematics.
So why is it that Shelby can come up with idea after idea for books they want to write in the future but can't get anything onto their paper except for a few smears of blood?
They met Apo at the start of this school year.
It was funny, sort of, because Shelby wasn't one for crushes, so they quickly wrote off the feeling blooming in their stomach and up towards their chest as the sort of jealousy they were familiar with. This girl was well-liked, and she had friends who were normal, and she was normal, and she seemed to know what she was doing at all times. Shelby could live with hating her, because she had everything Shelby wanted, and there was no chance she would ever spare them second glance.
The problem, Shelby quickly realized, was that they didn't hate Apo. They actually quite liked her and the way she laughed and the weird little habits she had and the way she talked to Shelby as though they were just a regular girl like everybody else. And then they weren't quite as jealous anymore, and then they got home and coughed a single apple blossom into the palm of their hand, and then they realized that they were well and truly ruined.
As Shelby gets home from school today, they run right up to her room, pull out their little notebook and a pen, and try to write. Today was good, it was good, so surely they can't be any closer to dying. They haven't felt a thing in their throat in a week. Things are going good. They have to be.
Their laptop sits beside them on her desk, taunting them with the files upon files of unfinished stories that they are bursting with anticipation to write. It's not that they have writer's block, or that they aren't good at writing — they're actually quite good at it, if they do say so themself — but the moment they think of Apo it's like their hands won't work anymore..
They look out the window and tap their pen against the paper, leaving little dots of ink that look like Apo's freckles. I wish you would look at me, they write, before striking it through several times and crumpling the entire sheet of paper. They don't give up quite yet: there has to be the perfect thing they can say to fix everything, and then they won't be waiting for their lungs to fill with dirt and leaves and Apo will love them back and they will have a girlfriend! They're so sure of it that they spend an hour trying to find the exact right first line for the poem they will leave in Apo's locker.
You're so pretty
Why are you so nice to me?
I'm so glad we could be friends
I wish I was you
Sometimes I think you hate me
Sometimes I wish you would leave me
Time wears on and Shelby's excitement is starting to dwindle. None of this sounds like real poetry.
Why can't I be anyone's first choice
Do you really like me or are you just being nice?
Please don't leave me alone
Their throat is dry.
I wish I was a girl.
I wish I was dead.
They start coughing, and they can't stop until another white-and-pink flower falls onto their open notebook, leaving a small smear of blood along with it.
Apo has this friend named Cherri.
They're really good friends, from what Shelby can tell. They spend a lot of time together. They talk all the time in class.
Shelby could handle it until the nicknames started. They had to excuse themself from class to throw up, and though they'd hoped it was simply from their disease, it wasn't. Along with the flowers was regular old vomit, burning Shelby's throat and making them too scared to go back to class. How much longer in the day? Can they get away with staying here until the bell rings?
They're going to fail this class if they don't go back, and they're probably going to be accused of cutting class for the same reason, but Shelby's legs won't move. Just the thought of the smile on Apo's face as she talks to Cherri is enough to make her want to get in her car and crash it.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
They lean over and choke up another blossom.
Fuck you, Apo, I'm staying home sick tomorrow.
Staying home is boring. They started by lying in bed and watching videos online, but that gets old quickly.
They pick up their notebook and try to write. Still nothing will come out of the pen.
Shelby's friends keep pushing them to tell Apo how they feel and make it clear they want to be closer. The very thought of it sends them running to bend over the toilet again, hand clutched against their stomach. There's just no way to do it that won't end in Apo laughing and never speaking to them again; they're sure of it. They cannot ruin what they've done over the past six months.
Because then it would all be for nothing. And then Shelby won't have a single thing to live for again.
Hiding it from their mother and their teachers is getting difficult too. They don't know what to do with the flowers that are piling up, and they don't know how to explain that they're not skipping gym because they're a bad student, they just cannot breathe. Shelby prays every night that someone will save them from the mess they've created through the sin of loving someone normal.
Apo deserves better than someone like Shelby.
The truth is that Shelby has tried to tell Apo on multiple occasions, but each time without fail began to cry and walked away without ever saying a word to her.
If they can't say it in words then maybe they can write it out. They resort to writing at school, too, as the risk of being found out is inferior to her desperate need to do something.
I don't want to die, they write in the back of their study hall. I don't want to die. I don't want to die.
Shelby's throat closes up and they don't even ask to go to the bathroom before rushing out the door.
There are enough flowers for a whole apple tree hidden beneath Shelby's bed.
They feel like they're going crazy. It's maddeningly funny how much Apo does not know about Shelby, and in turn how much Shelby does not know about Apo. They are hardly friends. They keep making eye contact during class. Shelby wants it to stop.
They daydream about Apo arriving at their house — barring any questions of how or why — and finding out about everything that is wrong with Shelby and wanting to be with them anyway. At night their dreams are filled with Apo too, and when they wake up they are disgusted and writhe in bed trying to crawl out of their skin until they have to get up and retch into the toilet again.
They're hardly more than a corpse, but they have to keep going to school, because Apo is there.
The question remains in their mind, though, of just how much longer this disease is going to last.
Apo is sitting alone by herself and Shelby can't make themself talk to her.
The pain in their chest has started now. It's only going to get worse from here.
Unless they can do something good for once in their useless, short life and talk to Apo, who has no reason to scorn them and smiles at them whenever they talk.
Shelby drops the piece of paper they were holding and walks away.
The crinkled, bloodstained poem reads simply I'm sorry I couldn't tell you.