Posts Tagged ‘betrayal’

copyright Gay Harper
It seems that,
with every death,
I lose a part of me.

There’s very little left,
now,
of who I used to be and

this person
I’m becoming
isn’t able to see

the person
who I was then or
treasured memories.

Locked in this head
are places to which
I no longer have the key

My identity
must have drained out
with the last bag of my IV.

A hollow shell;
mask on tight,
I still resemble me.

The me
I used to know.
The me
I used to be.

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Cringing white,
terrified,
I anticipate
the swift slap
of ink & metal

just before
the key
strikes,

crushing into
my thin, blank chest

a mark
that will be here
forever.

Lost Time

Posted: January 7, 2012 in My Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Our hearts beat together
in intimate embrace,
reflecting each other;
infinite repetition.

Like children, we accepted
the inevitability of Us.
Too innocent to question
an impossible future.

Forgetting all decorum,
tradition or taboo,
thinking only of each other.

How can I capture that wind
with words?
It tore us apart,
limb from limb, heart from heart.

Invisible but powerful enough
to drag you from my arms;
cleave you to her
like a tornado driven splinter:
sharp and irresistible.
Too deeply imbedded
to ever be freed.

I clutched my heart in bleeding hands.
That poor, shattered mirror
reflecting nothing but distortion.

Flayed feelings, burned then buried alive.
No eulogy was spoken.
They clawed at raw earth,
clinging to hope, but
nothing can set dead love free.

Neither fire, nor silence,
that grey ice sliding down my spine,
could unearth what was gone.

I mourned the loss alone;
vigil for the broken mirror.

7 years bad luck.

My sister says she misses you.
I wish I could agree.

I don’t miss you.
I hardly knew you –
at least any “you” I liked or respected.

To me, you were The Bogeyman;
origin of my self-loathing.
I’m relieved that you are gone,
happy that you’re dead.

Not because
I hate you, though, and
I thank God for that.

All those nights, alone with you –
You could have been my victim too,
a bitter role-reversal.
But I made a different choice.

I rubbed your back, held your hand,
changed your bedding, clothes and diapers.
I loved you when you were helpless,
because you couldn’t love me when I was.

When you died,
I was happy that you’d escaped the pain,
free from that worn-out body.

I too, was freed:
released from a lifetime
of hate and fear;
your whipping post, no longer.

We went our separate ways,
finally at peace.
Who could ask for more?

Then why do I feel so envious
that my sister had something to miss?

That darker dawn is coming.
The light of remembered lies;
lies I was told, lies I told
to protect my innocence.

It’s gone anyway,
shattered in a hundred
different ways.

I hide in the shadowed warmth
of the old bathtub,
shower curtain half drawn
to keep out the light,
the eyes.

The lavender curtain
turns skin to bruised petals,
soft and wet,
as if from spring rain.

The faucet drips constantly,
accompanying pain.

Nothing will wash this away.

I knew a man
who used to say
“Without love,
I am nothing.”

It turns out,
he was right.

Creature born,
fully grown;
not like a foal
on shaky legs:

invincible warrior,
claws honed
for tearing
truth
from the flesh
of unreason.

Innocent
need not fear
this spawn,
which grew,
undetected,
for years;

crawled at night
from my belly:

a force intent
on saving me.

From myself
when necessary.

It germinated
in the lush jungle
of secrets;

grew stronger
every day
until
it pulled itself
from me,
fully-formed.

Stroked
my face
with claws
like obsidian blades,

whispered
“We are one
in purpose.
I will be
your savior.”

And I believed.

Like a wire
in my head,
slowly twisting
tight.

Like a shove
between my shoulder-blades,
as I try to flee the night.

Like a faucet dripping
in the hollow of my chest;
restless echo, tapping
in between my breasts.

Like a bright red
sneaker,
at a black-tie affair;

like a balloon caught
on an updraft
of cold air.

Always where
I shouldn’t be;
never where I should.

I’d live life
like I’m supposed to
if I thought I could.

 

 

© Coin and Feather Press

Is it possible
to become
human,
after all this time
as a beast?

Learn to walk
upright,
speak
with crooked tongue.

Can I forgive
and forget,
move on
with my life;

learn
to stand tall
in ill-fitting shoes,
wearing the garb
of a traitor?

Or am I condemned
to run
barefoot
through grass so tall
it hides
what I really am;

makes me look
almost real?

Stand casual,
alert,
beside humans
sleepwalking.
Compare myself
to them.

I am full.
They are hollow.

We are different
species.

Photo credit, Brian Snelson

Eyes,
two.
I have them:
blue –

or grey
depending on
the day.

Grey hair
at my temples,
blends so well
with blonde,
few can tell
how old I am.

Two lips too,
do what lips do.
When they’re
not uncertain.

Other pieces,
fairly standard:
just one nose,
two arms and legs.
Things line up
correctly.
From an outsider’s
perspective.

Inside’s where things
get tricky.
There are more people
in here
than there should be,
and that’s not counting
me.

Who am I?
I’m one of many.
All sharing the same
crooked smile.

Same lips
have other
voices,
and these ears
hear singular things.

We all share
this body.
But we have different
friends;
unique habits,
age and gender.

Figure that out,
if you can,
and if you do,
tell me.

The whole thing
has me puzzled.

With so many
we’s in me,
I’m not even sure
who’s confused
anymore.

Is it only me?