Reply To: Week 4 Posts – December 12th

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Hi everyone, I’d appreciate feedback on this one.. is the logic clear, does it flow, is there stuff that could go…and any other analytical gems you can throw my way! Thank you thank you.

Origin Story

Past lovers flattered me:
I was that airy kiss on your cheek as the butterflies pass
a waterfall of wings when in love
lithe wheat leaning into the golden hour..
So romantic.

If you’d bought me at yesterday’s market price
I’d have been inauthentically yours.
Yes, all yours, but not myself.
I played the pretty clown to please
acted blond and blue-eyed-meek on my inoffensive stage.
Those shows were scripts I didn’t write
so many stories
none of them mine.

As a connoisseur, would you feel cheated
to be sold a work of art only half complete?
Darkness reveals perspective.
Can there be beauty without some beast?

My classical lines
belied what squatted inside-
gargoyles infested my heart
gift-wrapped in perfection’s claw
knocking on the coffin lid
that was my flawless skin
begging for a bruising.
Arson ignited my sighs.
Go on, I’d dare you, lift my designer shades
trace the blood diamonds that illuminate my eyes.

I am, by birth, the aftermath
the stain of my mother’s shame.
When our 9 months as one were done
she was raped again
by gas and scalpel
and a strange man’s hands
fumbling inside her
cutting our cord
stitching us up.

How does a child survive when the milk has turned?

When the toad in mother’s belly croaks
and her lifetime’s lies implode
I’ll not judge her pandemonium
I’ll watch, unflinching as a rock
silent as a tree
hold calm in the eye of her storm
while she exhausts her gods one by one.

History forgets
what she and I both know to be true:
we’ve been here before
more times than we can recall
played the same tawdry games
grandma’s footsteps still echo in the hall.

For my final act I’ve reset the scene
moved to the plot next door.
I tend a physic garden there
grow antidotes to mothers’ toxic smiles.
Business is blooming.

Do you ever wonder
which came first
the apple or the tree?

This body of mine
this bitter-sweet seed
is nothing to remark
except it’s where I start
except from here I try
to graft the words of my eulogy
to this brittle, precious life
return home to speechless awe
one syllable at a time
to rewrite these stories
and make all of them mine.