The video is a quickly thrown together sound bite with several art pieces that fit the topic. Death of my brother as well as sexual abuse, suicidal ideation and self harm (cutting) are discussed along side art stills. Close to the end of the video one photo of a box of crayons is seen for several seconds, then the video ends. That crayon photograph marks a detailed discussion of first being abused.
Life without Crayons
No coloring books
No cousin to first touch as I held gray
to fill in a cat who chased
but never caught the mouse.
No crayons would mean no dowel rods on my three year old body because
liberties were taken.
Life without crayons would never ask if
dowel rods broke before my mind had to.
Life did change that day. She saw me differently. Whatever she didn’t beat out of me that day made her violently mad until I left home.
You were a dreamer and that irritated the heck out of me.
A low tolerance for alcohol.
Handwriting large and round; I always thought it strange.
You rooted for the under dog and let everyone know.
You’d go left when all others turned right, but you never went quietly.
A soprano but otherwise not one to raise her voice.
You couldn’t cook to save your life, or mine.
Eerie gusts of wind made the curtains rumble.
At will the wind blew strong enough to send the curtains flying,
but mostly it caught them and shook out a chilling sound.
Had I not been half in, half out, I would have closed the windows,
but all I did was lay awkward, looking above my head,
at blue curtains lit up by flood lights,
caught in some unearthly grip.
A grip that soon found it’s fingers around my neck.
I clawed at the invisible trying to breathe,
I turned toward the window to catch the next wave to come through,
to gasp it in,
but it was never enough..
The more I struggled the more my chest compressed.
Pillows, covers, clothing were left piled where I wouldn’t stumble.
When every stitch had been discarded I realized it was yesterday sitting on my chest,
And I knew, the incubus of my past had again won the night.
This is a train wreck. I’m a train wreck. I want it to stop.
Sometimes my head doesn’t stop. I go from subject to subject. With each bounce I feel less in control.
I start looking for something to change that will make all the difference.
My head doesn’t stop. I laugh to myself, sometimes out loud. I think I might be crazy.
I’m standing on the tracks watching a train move slow for a train. it’s coming right at me, carrying dark clusters of desperation. I either can’t move or don’t want to. When it finally decides it’s dragged out the inevitable long enough, it fills my lungs with fuel ready to burn, and wraps metal around me like a snake in a horror flick.
I don’t resist.
That look in your eye and the throbbing vein tells me you’re crazy and
you’ll find a reason to split my back while you search for the mind you lost.
You’re going to break me if it’s the last thing you do,
it’s all you do.
Blood runs down the streets, in the sewage system, in the pipes, the water fountains, the duck pond.
The wind has again broken my cheap umbrella, turned it inside out
leaving me exposed to red that falls with thunder claps and
warnings from the sky that it’s about to get a whole lot worse.
I skip through puddles like when I was a little girl afraid of everything, risking nothing.
Cars pass by and splash blood puddles on my face.
The shock of the heat renders me motionless, only for a moment,
then I walk again
trying to shake off what the sky keeps replacing.
The forecast for tomorrow; O negative with a chance of guilt and shame,
Dowel rods, throbbing veins and a long, long time under your reign.
The calling of your violin is like a razor on my naked spine.
At three I never guessed you’d see six foot five.
I hoped your love for the Spice Girls was just a phase and it was, thank goodness, they were so irritating.
I can’t believe you slept in the darkest room in the house with the curtains drawn and hope squeezed out,
not even a ray could break in and make you smile.
At three years old you gathered the strings of my heart and played them the way you mastered Vivaldi.
But I never saw it coming, never saw the moment when everything stood still,
when the wind refused to budge and my eyes could not blink.
I never thought you’d ever leave.
It never crossed my mind that someone larger than life could cease to exist.
You, you with the ability to manipulate strings into notes so profound we’d hold our breath and descend, drown in them,
then surface at your crescendo, gulp and gasp at orchestrated magic.
Where is your encore?
Where is my peace?
My God I hate you.
I hate you like I hate the Spice Girls,
like I hate that house with its heavy window dressings and walls full of bloody stories it can’t tell.
I hate each morning, each night with the thought that I never got to say
I’m so proud of you.
Mother, I’m not quite ready to face confrontation.
i just want to see beautiful art that gets my blood flowing more than any pharmaceutical can.
i’m not quite ready to talk about death, loss and anger placed in boxes i’ve buried across the land.
a physician of the mind can’t empty my goblet of sour wine or
sleep in the bed i made.
i want to run
i want to fracture, bend backwards a little more,
break, fall to pieces. Continue reading →
Wake her. I can’t wake her.
A trance so simple to employ has held her captive these many years.
Wake her. I can’t wake her.
Smelling salts, the promise of every good apple,
a song pleasant to the ears,
a hand soft on her face.
I have pledged my life
to pour out water that will move stones
down the mountain of doubt and
build for her a tower where the best sunsets will be captured in her eyes.
I have promised,
still she sleeps.
“The Girl Who Lost Her Bird”
The Girl Who Lost Her Bird is in the Art Journal Originals gallery in my Etsy shop. She is also available on Redbubble as a print.
September 21, 2016
Copyright 2016 @ Sundrip Journals. All rights reserved.
This is free style writing. I just put my hands on the keyboard and write with no corrections or rewording.
Night Gardener – SOLD
With intense passion and lust for words, I abandon all reason and give myself over to the poet. I’m ensnared. The more I read, the more I hear them read, the more my heart just melts. I don’t want a physical relationship, don’t want anything but the words. I sound like an addict, like a girl who can’t drink the words just once, she can’t stop taking it in until she’s falling down drunk.
I wrote off being a poetess long ago. It hurt to write, it goes too deep and is too clear and real. Give me a little of your word play, lots of imagery and maybe guess work at the end of the line. Give it, but don’t ask anything in return.
I’m a fool in love with the weaver of words, words that make me drool, make my eyes roll back in my head, make me taste them when they fall from my tongue. The words of a poet are a trap, surely they must know the impulse is too strong to hold back. I’ll take the bait . No concern for anything, just head first, deep end, ink on paper.
If I was in fact, crazy, I’d fold myself in your arms and weep on your chest.
i’d let my mind be taken by a disease but leave the rest with you.
I could manage it, conquer it, if all of it was in my head.
i could look at you and know you understand i can’t help it.
though exhausted and bruised, you’d still let me lay my head down in peace.
i’d look at you, search your eyes for hope and find it.
your finger tips would be soft on my hair as you pull it away from my face.
my tears are allowed to fall in the cup of your hand.
my eyelashes swim in waves of diseased memories
but i’m with you and you love me, even though i’m crazy
i’m not crazy. i can’t see the wall in front of me because tears have distorted everything.
panic is just another night time ritual
and the knowledge that you will never rescue me covers my heart in grief
i’m shaking, my hands are shaking,
eyes closed, head down low,
i could let go and dissolve, then float to the floor like sawdust
the old rug waits uplifted for the swish of your broom.