some poems

5:45 am poetry, shadow monsters

Honestly, I tend to think most poetry is dreck, mine included. However, I do tend to capture something in my poems, and I guess they’re not that bad. I’ll post them behind a cut, and you can skip reading them. If you do read them, please comment.

The first poem is the one I went digging through journals to find. I wrote the first stanza in college, and added the ending several years later. I think it was written by Rynn, the oldest “runaway.”

I spent my eighteen years with you–
indentured servitude for my passage through your womb.
Six years after, I remain chained
in fetters of my own making.
My duty done, I left–you never freed me.
Your breath remains in my lungs,
your voice in my throat, in my ears.

I look behind me–are you there?
You have no need to follow–I chain myself.
Eighteen years together, six apart,
and I still have not freed myself from you,
from my past.

I looked for indenture–you took me a slave.

This one was a couple of pages before that, and I had absolutely no memory of writing it. The handwriting is different, and I do have a knack for not noticing the existence of something another part has written, even if it’s in the same journal. I think it was written by one of the teenagers; they’re saying Ellis, who is the one who did the things no one else wanted to do.

She loves me (she loves me not)
So, I’m writing this poem–or maybe it’s a story, but there isn’t really a plot. It’s about being a teenager, and it’s about emotional incest. Yeah–she loves me. Or not.

She loved me. When it first started, I was really proud, and flattered. I mean, my sisters already despised me for having been born to ruin their lives. I might as well get the attention and presents they punished me for taking away. She loved me not.

So, looking back, it’s hard to put my finger on what was, and on what was not okay. My mother was not supposed to be my first serious relationship. But she loved me. Or not.

Really, that’s what’s so hard about the whole thing with Mom. She didn’t come into my bedroom at night, or at least, that wasn’t what the thing was about. It was about the way our whole interaction was about me being her partner, except I wasn’t equal. My feelings about her are so confused. I loved her not. I loved her.

I guess I can look at this as coming out of a long break-up after a seven-year relationship. But that’s the thing–the whole context of us being together was abusive. And when you add the physical side of it… But doesn’t everyone live through that? I love her. I love her not.

The next two, I wrote when I was ten or eleven. At the time, I figured they were safe to write, because I could say they were “just poems.” I didn’t keep a journal, because people read them and got mad about what I said. I guess they were more subtle than they seem to me, since I showed them to teachers, and they just said I wrote nice poetry. Just guessing, based on who was around then, I think they were probably written by either Michelle (the “good girl”) or Amanda (the youngest “runaway”).

Day Dreams
Scudding, floating, drifting,
Day-Dreams, Night-Mares,
A world all my own,
Where I live,
all by myself.
Imaginary friends,
real ones,
stories, reality,
jumbled thoughts,
fact and fiction,
crazy Day-Dreams,
awful Night-Mares,
Wonderful, soaring,
flying, floating,
all mixed up in
my head.
I’m Lost, in this Place:
alone, scared, and
alone once more.
I can sense all
of the laughing jeers.
Don’t cry–they’ll call you a crybaby.
Watch where you’re going,
don’t fall, don’t trip,
you’ll lose the Race.

“Be yourself,
don’t follow trends…
be a trendmaker.”
But I know that someday,
it’ll be different,
someday, They’ll know,
I’ll be better than Them,
then: I will win.

There are others, which I may inflict on you in the future. These need to be polished, but I’m surprised to see how well I captured what I was feeling.

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