Vent #1

These aren't going to be very good. This is just my way of venting, and sometimes it turns out somewhat poetic, but always in this stilted, awkward style. Maybe somebody could get some use out of it.

I broke today.

At least three or four times.

I've fallen apart completely before, but not today.

Today, I was damaged.

I held myself together.

At times, my seams were bursting.

I held myself together so goddamned hard.

But I still broke.

Leaked.

Burst.



I did something odd.

I wrote a poem in fourth grade.

Didn't think much of it at the time.

Parent's loved it.

Mom framed it.

Dad made a copy and put it on his fridge.

I hate it.

So much.

It's so meaningless.

Pointless drivel written to pass the class and nothing more.

Inferior to anything I could write now and completely insignificant.

I am better than that poem.

I don't want to remember that poem.

I don't want to remember that time.

I don't want to remember.



I took the poem out of the frame.

Carefully.

The fourth latch didn't want to cooperate, but I made it.

The paper didn't quite fit in the frame.

The edge was bent.

I wanted to destroy it.

Every last trace.

Torn to shreds and burnt.

Buried.

Forgotten.




I left the frame face down.

The poem was placed in my mother's storage area.

Everything was there.

Just besides the kitchen table, where she always sits.

She would notice.

Inevitably.

She would say something about it.

About MY POEM.

THAT I WROTE AND WAS MINE.

AND THAT I MOVED.

that I didn't destroy.



She almost seemed angry.

I didn't want to look at it.

I didn't know.

Author's Note

Don't expect much.