I. Chain-Link Fence

*This is part one to the collection, To Plant the Memories Like Seeds*

 

The chain-link fence stands ten feet tall,
twice my height with barbed wire curled
between the thin metal links.

I stare at the fence-at my memories
keeping the dreams within perimeters,
the nightmares hidden in the spikes
protruding every other inch.

Everything inside, slightly out of focus,
my eyes drawn in by the shine of your
teeth reflecting on the barrier.

Your eyes held no shine at all,
a dull, lifeless pair of marbles,
leafy green like that of virgin
Mary’s fine rags. (What an irony)

I was before the fragmentary fence,
the construction carrying on as the
events played out.

I remained on the outside with the
wolf, his breath tickling my nostrils
with the snarls amplifying the weight
of his words-

How beautiful the flower had grown
to become, what a shame the stem
couldn’t live up to the petals.

You did not take the Mary from my
name, but only if we speak in
technicalities.

Just because the fence bares many
holes, does not mean it is fine to
claim one over others because you
like the way it looks in your possession.

Just because you steal one, does not
mean it will not affect the rest, they are
all still connected to one another.
It was of no surprise to me that
everyone liked you- a wolf in
sheeps clothing knows its disguise.

I knew you from when you were but
a florist, until it was decided that I
no longer needed your services.

You climbed your way into my garden
and ripped up the roots that would
have otherwise become the chain-
link of opportunities.

When planted in the flowerbed, I can
no longer take chances with adding
color to my monochromatic theme.

I almost miss the time I was too young
to realize the grower was becoming a
flesh-hungry animal, ready to pounce
on the dandelion who’d finally become
a rose.

I used my thorns like the barbed wire,
attempting to keep you out of my garth.

But the second time you tried to plant
seeds in soil that wasn’t yours, you
complimented my ability to maintain
the overgrowth.

I did not tell you it was prohibited, Instead
let you finish building the chain-link fence
connecting memories to anxiety.

 

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Stolen

I hang half-dead on a wall,
displayed and gagged with fear,
I am mute,
the vise tightening against my throat,
fingertips litter the crime scene.

My body was once a temple,
before you entered with your servants,
and ransacked all that belonged to me.

You left me chained to concrete,
my insides broken,
and my voice on mute.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.

Feature

Sometimes,
instead of watching my trauma at the movies,
front row with a screen so bright,
I can close my eyes and still watch its showing,

 

I imagine it in snapshots,
a slideshow of an incomplete moment,
split-second flashes of painted projections.

 

I see you; a doctor with scalpel in hand.

 

-click-

 

My bone marrow removed from my body,
positioned just right for your photo

 

-click-

 

My body laid out before you on the table,
my insides became my outsides,
and my outsides became stolen.

 

-click-

 

A graph indicating fifteen years prior and thirteen years after my birth

 

-click-

 

Me, nearly drowning in muddy waters

 

-click-

 

My shower,
steam rising to suffocate a greasy mind

 

-click-

 

Me, scrubbing

 

-click-

Scrubbing

-click-

Scrubbing

-click-

Scrubbing

-click-

 

A blank screen.
My innocence scrubbed raw,
sensitive to the touch,
its skin barely holding in what is left of me,
the bruises never leaving
even though they fell off years ago.

 

Sometimes,
when the credits roll,
I can still hear the sounds of breathing fill the theater.

 


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.