Tag Archives: childhood

A dream / My Reality

fluent image of my mirrored self,

an expulsion of the wooden buildingĀ blocks I stuffed into separate spaces

when I wore the pale blue onesie that you purchased for me

while you didn’t hold hands,

and you didn’t kiss.

did you speak of me at all?

was a future of my selfhood ever even blended into the sperm that you shaped yourself around?

unabashedly ignorant and martyred,

I was the jackal in your womb.

 

when I bolstered myself and courageously leaped onto the water slide

of sunny, desolate Florida,

I thought back to when you first forced me forth.

you were the only water slide I knew,

before I even knew what a bruise would look like,

your milky pool was comfort and seemingly torture

before you decided to take even the slightest of plunges into my side of our kinship.

 

now, we are both square pieces of glass,

an hour apart.

I want to shatter you until you are the sharp dust of a memory

and then I want to inhale you until you leave

the deepest cuts in my self that I ever

had the guts to bleed.

My Brain is My Womb

we met with my eyes closed, 

rolled into the back of my head,

awaiting the exorcist of adulthood.

you, veiled in a black sheet of stars 

were a bitter child of mine.

subconscious and clay skinned,

my childish fingers formed each blurred limb of your gnarled falsity.

I collected earthworms and quartz crystals and cut into them to draw out

the truth of innocence

on an impossibly bright playground.

all the while you shaped me into a bruise 

that covered even the ground I stepped upon.

the dirt that collected between my toes was a memory 

that I was filthy and would never let go.