Tag: creative writing

covered in hot water and
onslaught and broken
like the bed you threw me
on,
found shade in shower.
  wanted to skin myself
to get rid of your fingerprints
but I didn’t want to be noticed
either.    instead
I sat cross-legged
in the tub for 45 minutes
to steam some of it out.
it was a waste of water
you might have said.

I usually go to bed by ten pm
swathed in cheap sheets I picked up
from a trash can: moth-bitten
and low thread count and I washed them
but you’re right it’s a sense of self-deprivation
I wrap myself tightly inside
while I’m
tortured by my low self worth,
absent flowers, cold feet,
lamp on next to me and
wax all over the unfinished table
you were making
before I threw the chair you had finished
down the stairs to get you to
open up
here is what I need
I might have screamed
as you opened up the door
if I was better at controlling my
communication
but it ended in a slap across
your face and
your hands around my neck.

then a soft cloying kiss
later
you can tell has been rehearsed.
i’d be remiss if I didn’t reveal
a five feet of light bruising.
it’s heavy;
my tongue large with
little darted lullabies,
my endless provocation
and beg for hands
on me like
paddles or crops.
or just the way hands do
when hot, they
harm.

I’m up now and
I linger in the hallway,
watching the front window,
voice brusque and hushed
when I finally move to speak
to make my command on Earth,
withdrawing as it creeps
from its host;
like low tide,
the ripple distant like
low murmur
like you:

your sudden
retreat.

“February”

I’m trying to read the code.

She grabbed me by the arm and
gently pulled me up,
said

let me take you home. 

They say don’t start the story with something traumatic. But my first first memory was me standing up in my crib and looking out in the hallway to see my mother pass by dressed like a witch.  That memory is boring and so is the second one;  me screaming at nap time refusing to go to sleep. My mother’s reproving look. That is also boring and my third memory they said is too traumatic. They said don’t start with trauma. (No, I said that once). I said I wouldn’t tell a rape story in my own story but my third memory is before the license plate. I think. It is my babysitter’s brother locking my door and telling me to get changed. Then I remember cutting my hair and hiding it behind the dollhouse. No then, I remember my babysitter’s brother making a face as I stood naked throwing clothes over my head dramatically, theatrically, and being wanted. Histrionic. I do remember cutting my hair and hiding it behind the dollhouse. That was my fifth memory.  I also remember being on all fours, naked in my daybed. That was part of the fourth memory. The way he told me to take of all my clothes and try on outfits. I made it a gamel smirking, throwing them over my shoulder. Nubile. And wanted. He made a face though. Some crinkled nose face as I pulled a cotton ball or some sort of lint out of my belly button. I turned around and saw him make a weird face like I smelled. And
histrionic,
haunted.

I remember looking up at her with the limp brown pine needle in my hand unable to explain any needs; the way I hold things, the way I need to pace alone and mime, the necessity of reading the numbers in order. I’m sure my parents felt no worry when she returned me. I would be more careful when I needed it now: checking to make sure their brown car wasn’t there first, and skulking.  I would sneak into the yards to watch the numbers. 

The sixth memory is the one that I feel still, like it’s palpable and mine to hold forever, no matter how leather my flesh turns: swinging the screen door open and running outside in my favorite blue and white sundress, my hair in a ponytail and my mother nearby. The sun hit my shoulders, that’s what I remember. That’s what I crave every day. Grass was green and soon Alex would be home and the sprinkler would be on and the sun would stay on my shoulders. Laying stomach down on the lawn, I placed my summer reading list  on the ground and began to twist a blade  in my fingers.  Began to read the titles, excited. I had been the first child to read in my class, and in kindergarten, younger than anyone else.  My teacher had paraded me across the hall when she found out. Had me read to first grader’s so they could clap which I liked. I didn’t understand what I was reading. It was about a blue dog. I knew that from the illustration. Only I could read it proficiently and perfectly without comprehending what I was reading. Same way I speak foreign languages now. If you heard me say the phrase, you’d think I was fluent. But I don’t always know what I mean. 

every once in a while on a walk around town i say
vous avez envie d’intensité
to practice and

It was the applause I liked. The way the teacher beamed when she caught me reading, creeping behind me like they do. Me, big eyed and small as she held my hand and pulled me. The way I tossed my dress over my shoulder towards him like that. The audience’s jaw shift. Me, practicing Vah and the numbers to follow. Trying to give them all cadence. Like songs. The way they hear me humming round the block. The way they creep up behind me. The way eyes befall a mouse. The way eyes befall a garden. Heading to the dandelions and even with the hoverfly squarely in center, what are shoes for? Curious, learning about consequences. Learning to lift from your center. Learning to approach in whisper. Learning to

step on
things that are
small
and
quiet.

“first memories”