A poem with disappointment
You, with me, were there
when the monsters yelled.
Under the sheets
hiding from darkness and scared,
you and I, trembling through a nightmare.
You talked about dreams so I would forget
we were children living in hell.
It didn’t feel safe, but I wasn’t alone,
or so I thought
until time made you grow.
You grew bigger, not wiser; I realised
when you made of me the victim of your crimes.
I wanted to be your friend,
but you only allowed me to be your slave.
I remember that day
when I couldn’t take a breath.
I was eight.
You were twelve.
And the weight of your body
pressing down my chest.
You were stronger and unfair.
You were my big sister,
and I, of you, was afraid.
You learned as good, even if it was wrong,
what every day they showed in our dreadful home.
Let me tell you: It was not okay.
You didn’t know it then,
and sadly, neither today.
Control was your greater desire
so you tight me up with this invisible wire
to make sure my mind wouldn’t wander far
without your voice pulling me back
to your particular doll house
at least till my conscious started to rouse.
With no heart walked, father.
With sharp teeth lorded, mother.
With indifference, ignored it, brother.
And between us, a war that we yet suffer.
Now that I am free
in pain, I still live
purging the suffering
in hopes one day I’ll be
the woman I imagine
lies inside me.
Here is a bloody wound
of a traumatic childhood
healing with the best tools
which are poetry and the woods.
Support the author and get the latest publications subscribing to:
Look at her latest book 📕, En Brandán