I’m still that six year old girl with the tweety bird nightgown, tip toeing in ballerina flats, through a hallway I’ll never grown into.
Although now, my fingertips are yellowing and the lining of my liver is much weaker.
I can feel the tar in my lungs and my fingers are still crossed behind my back that I don’t end up like my father.
I have learned to paint my finger and toe nails all by myself,
the same way I was alone, naked, in the bathtub when I learned to braid my own hair.
"I figured it out!"
I could’ve screamed it at the top of my lungs.
"Surely, I taught you before"
"No, you haven’t"
I’m still the repressed frog caught in my parent’s throat that howls “good job, sweetheart”
I am trying not to be a tragedy, although my words can’t help it.
I spent twenty minutes today staring at my reflection through the camera with an unwashed face and could not chin up.
I woke up three hours too late and wasted another weekday.
Taking snapshots of my life, my memory has sought to find me some restoration but my life has never felt more futile.
I pictured my death for nearly three hours today, ready and willing to accept all consequences.
Even though I do not understand the pins and needles that have pierced my circumference, I am deflating.
I have words scribbled all over, my muscles ache and I worry that I am slowly losing my intelligence.
I’m still that six year old girl,
the one with the unbrushed hair, unwashed face, unnerved-
and I am waiting for the wrong reasons.
i may not be the best person in the world but at least i’ve never been the asshole who sticks gum to the undersides of tables and chairs
The Poem that Wouldn’t
Woven beautifully across paper
strings of words
rhymed not keeping time
so they did not dance
there was no melody, no tune
they never moved
that never found their groove
so I pulled the strings
watching them unravel
as they disappeared, un
mcdonalds announces new variations of the happy meal including the apathetic meal, the existentialist crisis meal and the clinically depressed meal
Never trust a writer because he is one who knows how to make things beautiful. He knows what it’s like to perfume words and feelings to make them seem nicer. He knows the strength of words and yet doesn’t really know how to use them to say quite how he really feels. More often than not, a writer will not talk at all. Writers get too good at typing onto a screen that they forget that we were born with mouths to talk as well.
This is not a sad poem
Or at least I don’t want it to be
But you look at me like your eyelashes
Are carrying the Great Wall of China.
I want you to look at me
Right in the face
Right in the punched-in-the-gut
Look I’m sporting.
Right in the heart of it all
The heart that wasn’t always mine
In the hours
That used to be ours.
And I don’t want to beg
Because it’s the worst thing anyone could do
I don’t want you to think you own me
I don’t want you to see me break.
But my voice breaks
With the word
And it sounds like when you lose an earring in the sink drain
Because you accidentally dropped it
And as you hear it clamoring down the pipe
You can’t take it back
You can’t wish you were more careful
That you held on to it harder
You just hear the clamoring of the earring
And your heart.
And then you look at me like maybe you were wrong
Maybe this glass-shattering-moment
Isn’t so shattering
Like maybe all you needed was for me to say please
See me broken at your feet.
And this is the part that I have to remind myself
Over and over
That I picked myself up
Not in the way teapot shards get glued together
Because your scars only cut as deep
As I want them to.
But in the way that that word please
That filthy word please
Filthier than a landfill or those corners that the vacuum can’t get to
Is something I never want to say ever again
Nobody gets to slam the fucking door in my face.
- Erica Jensen
I wrote this poem for creative writing class, it was the first real poem I’ve ever written!