I think I heard his steps
The sound of body hitting floor
I once was very close to breaking out
Though now it feels so long ago
I hoped to never see this house again
The one that smells like pills
The one that’s rotting from its base
Our whole lives it felt like a forest fire
Where we felt like by a fireplace
If I could choose to get him out first
I would
But never have ever did I so
Now I stand just beside it
Scared to move
To see even a little more
Why was I first to find it?
To open up the door and see the image
That be burnt forever in my brain
Why do I have to look again?
Why is this place still so the same?
I have a burning throat
The body is lying on the tiles
It doesn’t look like my brother at all
It’s the same bathroom I choked him in
When he was just around four
If he is the one whose heart does not beat
Why do I feel like
Blood froze inside my veins?
The blood that is insanely close to his
Up to the type and DNA
I need to retch my blood stream whole
I need to yell at him for choosing this one way
Don’t know which option is exactly worse
If it was a plan
Or a mistake
I hate him for my love for him
Its like the poison inside me
The only heritage of mine
The memory of my clenched fists
His little neck between my palms
The absence of the cure
The body on the tiles
And swelter making it a blur.
-
Author:
Vera Podell (
Offline) - Published: May 21st, 2023 08:17
- Comment from author about the poem: TW suicide. This poem deals with very harsh topics such as suicide, dysfunctional family, guilt, regret. The narrator is obviously very subjective.
- Category: Short story
- Views: 3
Offline)
Comments1
Past events, reels that flicker occupy my mind vivid w this image this bathroom w my hands closed around his throat , his almost 4 yr old body recovered before limp , my anger subsiding and my grip released and irony consumed as his final place of rest eerily now on familiar tiles of a bathroom floor that claimed him , lifeless now, perhaps symbolically in completion of that past violent moment.
Okay., don’t be mad , I really felt the arc of your story and felt it worthy on many levels. A poet way smarter and better than me pleaded w me to avoid a certain trap that’s easy to fall prey to and easy not to notice. The use of the pronoun “I”
Tends to weaken and lessen creative tension in an otherwise impactful piece. I purposely overwrote and overdid this quick rewrite to hopefully illustrate how stories gain a certain strength if we as writers take the time to rewrite without that pesky overuse of that pronoun. It’s like the first thing many poetry books recommend. I’ve got no agenda and sharing what others shared w me could be of benefit Or just ignore me cuz i ain’t nobody that has any standing , but I took a risk and agree or not please know it is offered w my best intent. God Bless
i am very grateful for appreciating my poem and for your criticism. that is not the best thing that have written and i may try to correct it in some time, but thanks for reading it and trying to help me in my creative process 🙂
Dig. It’s a community thing and I do fall into the same trap and now I’m more aware and thus the epistle directed to you. Just try and rework the lines and skip the pronoun. It forces a creativity that affects phrasing and timing and really “bodies” up the work. Try not to use “I”
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