Bulletproof Glass

Words hang between 

us like glass

about to shatter

Once touched

they fall

flat, a din

sad sound

with an edge

thick

in the throat. 
I heard 

crying

but felt

nothing

I feigned sleep.

It’s not my place

any longer.
It’s nice

to read back 

over old stories

but your chapters

are over

and I’m writing new ones

without you.
The cracks

you made

are gone

from my skin

and now I

am bulletproof. 

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I would put my mother in a snow globe

I would put my mother in a snow globe
where time stands still
safely tucked
far away from the world
up in a tower
in a castle
frozen in liquid
under glitter-snow
safe away from things
So she would stay
the same
as she’s always been
who I thought she was
when I was younger.

Mothers are supposed to be
smiles
and hugs
comfort
a shelter
from the storms of life

But
mine became a monster
I want to trap
and cage to keep
as an example
of what a mother shouldn’t
look like.
I want to keep her
away from
the things that turn her
into this creature
with the familiar face.

I would keep her in a snow globe
safe inside
a glass prison
perfect and beautiful
under the glitter-snow
where nothing can touch her
taint her even more
where she can heal
and where
she can’t touch others
as the creature she now is.

People are Lucky

People are so lucky.
they don’t realize
what precious things they have
surrounding them. they’re happy
but all good things
always get taken
for granted by those
who have the privilege
whether they love
or hate the things they have.

Some of them are
fake happy smiles
hollow words of love
idle complaints about nothing
complaining about
these riches they possess
the people they love.
These people don’t realize
what precious treasures
they have between them.
It sickens me. I am envious.
It’s a waste.
I would not take
such happiness for granted.

Those commercials on TV
about medicine, vacuums
life insurance. with the happy music.
They break me down
into a waterfall.
Children laughing, crying,
holding onto their mothers shirt
baby bottles, tiny hands
enveloped by a fathers strong fingers.
Two people
a tiny treasure between them
I have to look away.
Happy Families:
my own little trauma trigger.

The museum has a display:
fetal tadpole darlings
floating frozen, ghosts in glass.
A black and white room
of tiny dead babies.
The Development of a Human Zygote
it used to fascinate me
but now
those dead darlings hang
like bodies on a gallows
strung up for the wide eyed crows.
Nightmare fuel.
I can’t go into that room anymore.

This poem makes me shake
to write. but with tears
like a cold river washing
through me. the words cleanse
my poor broken heart
and take the pieces far away…

People are so lucky.
They have treasures all around them.
instead of nightmares. Ghost faces
in the dark corners of a room. Staring
dead hopes haunting my shoulders.
They don’t realize how lucky they are.

 

My Old Friend It

I have an imaginary friend…
I call her It. A stupid name
given a long time ago
by a girl being emo.
She’s a reflection of myself
but with dead eyes and white hair
and a stupid sneer
a thing that lives in my old bedroom
she lived in my sanctuary
right next to my soul
she whispered to me at night
she kept me awake, tormented me
she gave me sharp tools,
told me to use them
I couldn’t say no to her.
They made things feel better
but I didn’t want it that way.
She was a constant torment
fighting me, trapping me,
holding me down, hurting me
holding paper cutters to my face
I don’t see her much anymore,
but sometimes she surprises me
shows up scratching at my window
Feeling her watching, keeping her out
is just as painful as the blades.
I don’t want to kill myself
I just wish I didn’t exist
but It shows up sometimes
to remind me it’s the same thing.
She’s around less often,
she still lives at that old room
but she likes to visit.
It’s hard to shut the door
in the face of such a longtime friend.
Even with her poor methods
she was still the only one
who wanted to comfort me.