Four years old and short of breath,
in a tented bed at the end of the ward,
the terror of separation in check only
because Mother had told me she would be
there in the morning, first thing.
But she wasn't, and at last I just wailed
across the receding rows of sick children
and they, like sympathetic strings,
howled back in atonal harmonics.
The bulging matron shouted: "SHUT UP!",
and grumbled loudly about “that brat”.
Later, when Mother arrived,
the matron handed me a toy
with a smile,
that did not reach her eyes.
I stared into the mirror too long
And it finally broke beneath my gaze
Not from age, neither from accident
But the weight of truths I dared not face.
I saw a childhood in pieces
stitched together with borrowed faith
smiles that were survival
and joy that never quite fit.
I tried to imagine someone else
a better version
but the cracks revealed more
than I could ever hide.
Behind the splinters
a black hole not born of stars
but dug by my own hands
layered carefully to bury what hurt too much to hold.
I hate that reflection
not for what it shows
but for what it threatens to reveal
a truth I can’t unsee, the quiet contempt I carry
for the person I pretend to be.
She lately hears lyric nightingale at the sole window,
And through its bars witnesses a melancholy moon,
And her heart longs for the freedom of velvety flight,
But lessons she now knows weren't learned too soon!
An innocent victim of childhood abuse and ensuing rage,
In the days of sugar plum fairies and make believe,
A streetwise teenage runaway, who soon lost her way,
After making an unwise choice of whom she would love!
During lights out she makes plans and begins to reminisce,
Knowing in her young heart, it won't always be like this,
Like the transient rainbows that are destined to reappear,
Or the twinkling stars that often grant fervent wishes!
Her youth has mercifully granted her second chances,
In accordance both with beautiful logic and holy decree!
Written on August 19, 2020
For: Woman in Chains Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
calamine lotion
phisohex soaks, itchy ooze
poison ivy hell
~ ~ ~
Johnson's Paste Wax (floors)
wooden spoon on knuckles: smack!
wash dishes. repeat.
~ ~ ~
round dent in hall wall
from my head... demonstrative
daily reminder
~ ~ ~
recurring nightmares
chased, wolf snapping at my back
there is no escape
~ ~ ~
bare skin, willow whips
forced to eat raw onions
run away? tried. failed.
~ ~ ~
when company came
She laughed and called me her maid.
never good enough
~ ~ ~
fingernails pinch ear
dragged down hall: Make your bed right!
childhood memories
Convalescence is possible with the renewal of faith.
Each resuscitation may be found in the power of healing.
I have found rehabilitation from a disease of the mind,
a malady that only existed because of my childhood abuse.
Good counsel and love can restore a wounded spirit.
Rehabilitation Contest
Julia Ward
May 31, 2018
The edge of the darkness lay right before him, the next step along his path. Light waiting to consume him, waiting to immediately reveal the secrets of his past. Hesitation follows, the darkness had become his home, after he destroyed one after another. Failed as a father and a son, he had planned the backstabbing and betrayal of his brother. His conscience guilt-free, the illusion of happiness he had portrayed very vivid and real. Long ago within the darkness he had let go of his ability to care and eventually to feel. The darkness had not been consuming him, the darkness he himself had secretly produced. Wanting to hide from others the pain, the facts, the drugs, alcohol and years of childhood abuse. Yet still his sins were not justified, he made no excuses, those facts he had covered with lies. It was not the truth he was concerned of revealing, it was the scars he hid and tears he had cried. So into the light he must step, for never again will an opportunity arise like this. Though just not I, but my demons will walk with me as I finally walk out of the darkness.
I sit with heart breaking,
Why is my son forsaking?
I look back at my past tomorrows,
Thinking, the next day, no sorrows.
I did my best, with what was given,
With my childhood abuse-unforgiven.
Motherly instinct were lacking in me,
Having no example, what a Mother should be.
With fear and shame, no loving arms,
My idea of parenting, only caused harm.
I've found my answer, I'm finally free!
Let go of the past-FORGIVE-let it be.
Now my son is on the same path,
With hurtful memoirs from his past.
He's doing his best, with what was given,
But for me, there's no forgiving.
His handsome face I never see,
For now, he has abandoned me.
God touched my life, made me whole,
Now the loving Mother, he'll never know.
Turn around, face me
You yelled as my walk became a run
Don't know what I'm running from,
Run from something worth chasing, I go
My heart beat, it just won't slow
Why the hell are you standing there?
Thinking, 'should I care?'
It doesn't mean a thing to me
I know I don't hold your heart's key
Build me up, break me down,
Tell me the truths, tell me the lies
Be the abused, be the abuser
Run!
til I finally see the sun
Run!
til I've finally won
I can't tell you exactly where I'm headed
But I won't let myself be sedated
Your drunk, false moments of "affection",
Have been forgotten in the haze of my affliction
My feet move on their own
You will no longer chill me to the bone
Soon I will feel the warmth of the sun
Now I know, this is why I
Run!
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