Injuries

it was plain to see, flying like a plane off her wooden stilts
there would be blood
there was no pain as the broken window pane sliced down beside her left eye
so much blood discombobulated her mother
tears took center stage, not the white t-shirt now stained dark red
the hysteria in the background so oscar worthy
a little girl watching the performance
not knowing yet there were deeper wounds created
years passed before mom and her chronic attention-whoring
got that so richly deserved smack-down
the girl, now a woman, didn’t clap, fawn or adore anymore
she just walked away

Inspired by Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Saturday Mix

Invisible

Photo by James Sutton on Pexels.com

my love for you…

is written on my face
but you can’t seem to read me

emanates with intensity
but you are immune to feeling me

is expressed with every syllable
but you don’t know how to hear me

is right in front of you
but you are unable to see me

i must not be enough

Wordle #461

My sister and I grew up on all things camp – TV, film and even some music. We watched the funniest shows like Gilligan’s Island and Batman. It was hilarious getting animated, emulating an exaggerated karate chop through an imaginary smoke trail or holding Vick’s up to our eyes, so the vapor made us cry fake tears. 

I am yearning for carefree, childhood trips with the family, watching monarch butterflies flitter around on the mountain hills. The current plot twist in our lives makes me ache for pure, unadulterated silly joy. Thanks, Covid-19.

It’s time for some birdsong and chill.

My Angel

memories are a bitch
bubbling up
from depths
mourned long ago
tears falling
without consequence
my friend, you are missed

 

I was in my early 20s when I lost my good friend, Jerry Angeline, in a vehicle accident. His death impacted me deeply. This was our song and what triggered a flood of memories recently. It still hurts.

Scared Straighter

Inspired by Reena’s Exploration Challenge #124

ghhghh
Diogenes

fear-mongering from infancy
forcing acceptable behaviors
through mental scars

morals etched in deep
with vivid stories
petrifying children into submission

the fairy tales last forever
in the minds
of impressionable children

the morals passed on
lurid and shocking
mean to stifle and suppress

the stories
a warning
of unacceptability

it’s a wonder how we managed to grow up at all

Intimidation

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I nearly stumbled down the grassy hill after Theresa punched me in the stomach. My left arm struggled to hold on to the books in the crook of my elbow. The right one, swinging free, hung limp. It seemed the fear was more significant than my humiliation. I couldn’t fight back.

Theresa’s rage quickly turned towards my sister. For just a moment, I felt relief that I wasn’t her target anymore. But I did nothing to stop what was coming. My sister had her ponytail pulled so hard; I could see the redness of her scalp and little spots of blood from the ripped out hair. Still scared, I knew this aggression was far from over. The sinking feeling in my stomach was causing havoc on all the nerves in my body. I wished so hard not to be there anymore.

Why were we being attacked? What is it I was supposed to have done to Theresa for this aggression towards my sister and myself? I was so confused. I was scared too. So scared.

Theresa turned around to me again with a look that backed me way down into myself. She threatened my life, and I believed her. Then she slammed her open right hand so hard up against the left side of my head, leaving me with nothing but loud ringing in that ear. It was surreal. The left side of my whole body felt numb and on fire at the same time, while the right side was still part of the ordinary world. She glared at me as we both precariously stood on the hill. She’d braced herself into the hill, and I’d leaned slightly back, securing a foothold in the grass. I remember hearing her mumblings in my head after a bit, but for the life of me, not one sentence in my mind was coherent. I still can’t remember what she said or what I replied. Whatever it was that I uttered, the words seemed to appease her. I’d managed a reprieve for myself and my sister. Our tormentor finally left us alone and walked away.

I can still remember the colors of the grass. And the everydayness of that regular walk to the house. The smell of the wind wasn’t meaningful, and nothing was out of the ordinary. It was all just so average. In a second, all that changed to me becoming a bruised emotional wreck along with my sister. That afternoon was awful. Bathed in fear, I was feeling about as small as anyone could get. But I remember still being happy to have walked away relatively unscathed. This attack happened, for no reason other than Theresa had a bad day. She was a bully, and we were her targets du jour. We happened to cross paths with her on the way home from school — lucky us being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In looking back, I realized courage was lacking in me that day. Self-preservation was the instinct on that hill. But it stirred a resolve in me. I wasn’t going to back down anymore. I realized I shouldn’t be afraid to stand against anyone who would seek to harm me or anyone else who was vulnerable. I wasn’t going to be intimidated anymore.

Covering

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Joy feels like exposure to the harshest elements.
In showing it you become a pawn
in the game of advantage
like taken of that is.

Allowing happiness to make an appearance,
well, that’s just a sin.
“Be humble, accept things with grace,” they said.
As they shushed my feelings out of jealousy.

Feeling like a kernel doubling in size,
well, that’s just ruinous.
“Let’s not have a grandiose, public display,” they said.
As they swatted my butt out of anger.

Having intensity acknowledged on the surface,
well, that’s just suicide.
“Behave yourself!” they said.
As they locked me away with a pious vengeance.

Where did it ever get me to give a voice
to what bubbles up happy tears and excitement?
Hide your feelings, stomp them down reactions was all I ever got.
Because no one really wanted to meet the real me.