crowded

Cherry

By a.lesser.thing

Mon, 22 Apr 2013
  • 753 reads
5 comments
 

The dress
hangs in
my closet,
mocking me.

My heart
pulls in
on itself
because
it sees no
other way out.

I wrote lullabies
for myself, and hid
them where necessary.

In the smell of gasoline,
in the taste of stolen vodka,
in a silent house, in the sound of
macaroni shells cascading into
a boiling pot of water.

Humans may
have been designed
for social interaction,
and a made-up word called
"love,"

but I've spent my near
decade and a half
reconstructing.

I ignore the hands
pressing against my
skin from the inside,
the pleas of "let us
out," and I ignore
the people in the
poem when I write
them because they
feel too much like
me.

I remember
my childhood.
I just don't remember
when my body began
to get so crowded.

I was designed

alone

a one-part
piece

for a reason.

Certificate PG
Poem
Unclassified

Comments

Submitted by The Walrus on
Those last few lines are stunning.

Submitted by Mark Heathcote on
I love the third and forth part; the escape of making these beautiful lullabies, and the way you capture a moment in time that still isn't truly hers. Great work!

Mark Heathcote

Submitted by seashore on
You are some writer and this is excellent.

Submitted by emilyksmith on
I just love this. Well done.

 

Submitted by a.lesser.thing on
To be completely honest, I'm getting emotional sitting here, reading your guys' comments. I was second-guessing myself on this poem, because it was originally going in a great number of ways, and feels very personal. I walked away from it, then came back and edited it up, deleted a number of parts, and kept the ending. It feels right now, though I can't be certain--it's hard to completely step away from certain pieces and say, "How does this make me feel? What points out to me?" I wanted to say thank you (immensely)! I feel blessed to have people reading my work, let alone giving feedback. I never thought the things I put on my notebooks, my phone, my computer, would be read. It's great, and I feel a sense of belonging. To wake up every day, write a piece, read a few more, and scroll among the forums--it's amazing to me. I wouldn't say I'm a genius, because some days, I still struggle with the term 'writer' or 'poet.' And I definitely don't think you have a reason to envy me--I'm still an awkward, long-limbed teenager, trying to jump hurdles and ignore the scars on my forearms. I have a long ways to go still, if I'm blessed enough to be able to get there--wherever that may be. I certainly hope you're right, though, Stan. If I'm gonna live out a lifetime here, I hope it opens up to something beautiful.