What we are Becoming

We believe in curses.

The names we’ve been called,

The feeling we were being

Overlooked on the playground

 

The whispers behind our backs

The quickly muttered greetings

& sideways glances

Hands held between people

 

But not ours.

We shared our lunch with

No one on a picnic blanket

Meant for two.

 

Is it the color of our hair

Or the size of our frame

That make them doubt us so?

Or is it that feeling

 

Deep in the gut

Bubbling underneath the awareness

That’s let them know

Something sinister is lurking?

Last Image

The cabin air feels tight
Depressurizing
And as I sit here not yet realizing
What’s happening,

A picture pops into my head
Of you, eating grapes
At our table

Laughing at the ordinary moment
Of me dropping my milk
“Typical” You smirked

And that smile lingers
On the horizon as I
Softly go to sleep

Photo Credit: dutruong.t733 via Compfight cc

Silent

Your hand reaches out
Taking hold of my throat
Closing, closing
Choking the goodness from my lungs

Seeping, sweeping onto the floor
Crumpling down
Down I go
Losing consciousness

For a moment,
Taking me by surprise
Your words hit me
This time

Like they haven’t before
Revealing the stain of pain behind my eyes

But this is my job
To listen
To not hurt, to not react

So I deaden my eyes
Forcing a smile

Not giving myself away

Photo Credit: Jeremy Wilburn via Compfight cc

Why I don’t Write

Do I write for fun?
Or when the power of words hit me?
Do I write to process, to understand
The beauty of things that surround?

Would I write if energy was freely given,
Flowing to me in a continuous
And purifying rain of words?

If the bones in my hand didn’t ache
As I typed
And my heavy head wasn’t throbbing
From buried pain?

If my day wasn’t congested with
Chores and human frailties
Could I produce
A brilliant new world?

Or would I still sit here, wilting
Creativity dripping down the
Sides of my face
Not knowing how to come back from all this madness?

Photo Credit: Wouter de Bruijn via Compfight cc