She is Being Watched

This is a poem I wrote for my creative poetry writing class. It is based on a scene from a movie idea I came up with that involves themes of 90s metal music and killer clowns.

My eyes burn

from the smudgy kohl

liner streaming down my face

as I slam the screen door

leading to the cul-de-sac.

Mother and fathers’ barks

and whines still ring in my

ears, but soon begin to muffle

from the crunching of the

red-orange leaves beneath my

feet as I walk faster to

get away.

The thick fog blurs my

vision as I stumble to find

my way, but as my eyes adjust,

the dim streetlights illuminate a

sidewalk path for my escape.

I wander the neighborhood,

eyeing the houses decorated with

skeletons, witches, ghosts, and

carved jack-o'-lanterns that blink

from their candlelight as I roam by.

In the distance, I see a

deserted children’s park,

a sanctuary to hideout before

returning to a place that

does not feel like home.

A place where my little sister

still lies in her bed,

clutching her clown doll, wondering-

“Wherever did my sister go?”

I grab the blue swing,

cold and metallic in my hand

as it squeaks with every

movement before settling down as

I sulk into the swing.

I bundle my arms over

my body from a cold

breeze coming in from

the west. The wind is

bitter and pins the rips in

my stockings like needles.

I rather be bundled up

in my knitted blanket, cozy

by the fire as my sister and

I tell each other

ghost stories on this

Hallow’s Eve.

I begin to wipe away dried-

up tears with my

fishnet sleeve that still

smells like the perfume

I sprayed on the day before-

An accord of cinnamon-

cherry cola and violet incense,

a signature scent at the

Goth shop down the road.

A place I was

forbidden to go by

Mother and Father who wondered-

“What ever happened to our little girl?”

Their little girl who used to beg

for a Cabbage Patch Kid for Christmas,

but now all she begs for is acceptance.

Still plugged in my ears

is the Walkman I was

about to play before Mother

and Father stormed in my

room to start a scene.

I hit the play button and

Kurt Cobain’s rendition of

“The Man Who Sold the World”

begins to mellow in my ears.

The melodic yet melancholic

tone in Kurt’s voice and the soft

acoustic instruments easy

my anxieties away.

“I thought you died alone

A long long time ago.” 

I felt the same way

when I started to change.

“You used to be so beautiful.”

Before the black painted nails,

the black lipstick stains, the black

metal bands, and the black clothes

that wore tightly around my body.

“You’ll ruin your sister.”

As if they hadn’t ruined her first.

I begin to sway the swing

back and forth until my feet

are high in the sky and my black

hair flows back and forth in the wind.

Every inch of pain begins to melt

away with each swing. I close

my eyes and let the swing guide me

as I enter a state of nirvana-

Kurt’s voice continuing to serenade.

Why don’t you open your pale blue

eyes for just a moment to notice me-

The lonely clown at the edge of the park.

The lonely clown that prances around

in a pink and white polka dot costume,

looking for a fleshy meal to eat.

Not the lonely clown that gets

hired to work at children’s birthday

parties. The children would shrivel in

fright from the ear -to ear 

grin that would rip skin

if it were ever replicated.

No, I am the clown that followed

you when you stormed out of that

house and now I watch

you swing as I wait at the edge of

the park on this

Autumn midnight.