Bedtime Story

Let me tell you a bedtime story.

A story which began a long long time ago

In a faraway place, hidden deep inside

Called the heart.

The heart led a happy life:

It would be happy as long as it listened

To her wise mother’s words, “Dear Heart,

Never visit your ugly neighbour, Memory”.

But one day Heart leapt across the gate

And paid a visit to Memory,

And this bedtime story is about

The sad results of this visit.

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This is a story about happy eyes

That turned dull, of smiles frozen,

Of days that dragged by, of

Forgettable people and fleeting joys.

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This is a story of numbness

And an all surprassing loneliness:

Of dejection, and a constant

Dull ache right below the skin.

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It’s about always feeling cold,

The tips of your fingers constantly freezing,

About laughter and words sounding distant

And never experiencing a moment of silence.

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Oh, do you not want to hear this story?

Then go to sleep, darling. But remember,

Sleep isn’t a safe place anymore;

That’s where those hands always find you.

Waiting

One day, I hope not to wait

Watching as you erase  me

In new faces, places and stations.

I do not want to always hear

Your hurried goodbyes, two and a half minute

Long conversations about how busy you are,

While your friends laugh in the background.

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I do not want to watch my days go away

As I watch my phone to make it ring,

My decision to be cold and not pick up

Evaporating the moment I hear your hey.

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One day I hope to be you

Letting places and people push me around

Then I will not have to try

To make you a memory, it would be too easy

To forget you in the time I am busy.

 

 

The Mouthless Woman

The drip of a leaky tap

Has turned into a gush of blood.

I am terrified of time:

Its malevolent, fickle movements.

The night no longer embraces me

In its absolute blackness:

I can hear all of its voices now.

I fear if I turn just an inch,

They will tear my skin off.

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I find myself being afraid

Of so many, many things.

I am so full of secrets.

History’s pull is stringer now

I dare not imagine a future

Rid of yesterday’s scratches and screams.

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I fear I will turn

Into the mouthless woman

Decked in her father’s sweat

And her mother’s tired expectations.

The mouthless woman is dangerous:

She lets him have her life.

More importantly, when she finds a voice

It will only say, “Keep your eyes down, dear”,

“Do not provoke them, daughter”,

Or worst, “you’ll grow up to be just like me”.

In Memory of an Assault

Disclaimer: Not autobiographical

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I wanted to scream when you were done with me

To rage and kick and pull out your hair and bite you

In my dreams I slap your face and watch it dissolve.

When I sleep I see a different world,

One where you live in a muddy pit

Dug from all the hot anger I felt.

I am vindicated in my imagination.

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In real life, I cannot scream,

Not when I see you. Your photos.

Emblems of your successful life.

Your clueless, perfect, nuclear family.

I want to cut you with my words

I want to laugh as you repent

What you’ve done, hidden for so long.

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Instead, I am forced to shake your hand

And be nice to your family

And answer your stupid questions

About my life.

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I watch your happy life.

Why is it that I am the one who hasn’t moved on?

Will I go to sleep everyday, exhausted from the ordeal of the everyday,

And wake up in the middle of the night

To feel your hands up my thighs?

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Why am I the one tired?

Why am I the one broken?

Why are my sentences incoherent and mundane?

Why is this a terrible poem?

What to Make of You

Writing 201: Poetry

Day#7 Prompt: Fingers, Form: Prose poem, Device: Assonance

I could look at your restless long fingers the whole day long.Your soft, fond fingers rubbing my aching back so tender, so gentle. Your nervous fingers, fumbling confusedly as you speak to someone you don’t know. Fingers that fail at tying my hair. Experts at holding me before I fall and dividing food. Fingers that lazily tap on your stupid phone. Make me feel loved, make me feel covered through their warmth, no, their heat, through all the different ways they know to touch. Scare me like nothing ever has or ever will when you are angry, the grip of your fingers so icy, so strong on my arm that I am choked. I don’t know what to make of you or your fingers: should I trust the warmth or the cold anger? Your fingers lay waiting and apprehensive as your mouth asks for forgiveness. My eyes are still fixed on your fingers to read what you’ll do next.

The Lovely Lady in Grey

Writing201: Poetry

Day#6 Prompt: Hero/Heroine, Form: Ballad, Device: Anaphora, epistrophe

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The children loved to wait in the way

Where walked the lovely lady in grey

Their lives were mostly sad blues

The lady’s smile gave it a brilliant hue.

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The children were poor, you see

Their clothes were torn and dirty.

But when walked the lovely lady in grey

They felt the beam of the brightest part of the day.

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The children in wait every morning lay

For there walked the lovely lady in grey

She brought food, she lingered a while

They loved it best when she would smile.

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The children led rough lives in mean streets

And slept cold beneath tattered sheets

So when here walked the lady in grey

Her smile was like a pretty bouquet.

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One day the lovely lady in grey looked in the mirror

And decided life wasn’t worth living with all the horror

Her death mattered to few, no flowers on her grave except

The wayside flowers picked by the children who wept

For the lovely lady in grey.