when i look across the street,
even in summertime,
dusk covered in fireflies
of childhood memories,
luminous warmth fluttering on and off
on and off, on and off, on and off,
i see Their house.
no.
those are not fireflies but embers.
volcanic, acidic cinders.
catch the ashes
burn from the outside in,
childhood decay.
and ashes, ashes,
she always falls down.
'lock the door.'
click.
Their room.
ice cream on the nightstand,
bed of tangled sheets soaked.
sickening sweat.
Ah, Mr. Brightside rings loud and proud.
Music always drowns out unwanted noise.
my closet.
clean it. clean it. do not feed it.
when I was pressed against that wall.
no.
my bed
it happened.
in my own bed.
no.
well, at least i have a new mattress now.
i am left to believe that You,
the one who i caught fireflies with,
childish and poisoned by the ashes,
were the product of some crime
in which right from wrong
could not be distinguished
in such a child's mind
You must have been hurt too
and through hurt,
You learned to hurt.
how hard it must have been.
still, I am not you.
you are not Me.
I will not follow you.
I pity you.
-
Author:
Alex Trenwith (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 29th, 2017 23:10
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 35
- Users favorite of this poem: Dawn Von Rue
Offline)
Comments2
Wow, truly moving poem.
Thank you 🙂
Very powerful piece, Alex! Trauma expressed often makes for the finest poetry. Keep up the good work,
Thank you so much 🙂
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