Stain

Moments ago,

something familiar floated

to the back of my mind.

Moments ago,

the taste of sorrow

filled my mouth

and I remembered.

The superficial smiling faces.

The laughter.

The cruel words.

That made me

want to offer myself

to Death.

It would have been

a release from all

that pain they forced

on me.

 

Once I held a knife

over my heart,

the deadly end poised

on my breastbone.

I wondered how painful

it would be.

What it would be like

to feel the life

quickly receding from my body.

About the dark comfort

of Death’s oblivion.

How long

it would take for

someone to find me.

And about how much

I would be mourned.

 

I was frightened.

By Death,

but even more from

the loss of my words.

Everything I had

painstakingly created would

have been lost,

the voices of countless characters

dying in the darkness

of a fading mind.

I returned the knife

to its waiting holder.

 

That was six years ago.

I was young,

but not too young

to not understand

the bitter sting of

social rejection.

I remember, as I always will,

the stain it placed upon

my wide-eyed and

innocent soul.

Still, it lingers;

I can feel it every time

I breathe.

With every pulse of my heart,

I remember,

for it is my eternal comfort.

 

I remember how far

I have come

because I will never

forget.

The stain will always

be there.

Author's Note

As I type up my poetry into document form, I sometimes read it and sometimes don't. When I read it, it makes me remember everything that I experienced while writing that poem. I remember exactly where I was, how the pen and the paper felt, and what I wore. Most of all, I could feel what was in my heart. While typing up this poem, I wondered what it was about (I often forget--I have over 400 poems!). In the beginning, I was confused; by the second stanza, I knew.

A long time ago, I was socially rejected by my peers. I was bullied. I cried bitter tears, and I have never since been the same. I considered death. It was appealing. I really held a knife over my heart and did wonder what it would feel like. Though, I instantly thought of my dream to create stories that others would read. I had already found my purpose, something rare for a young person. I was scared that my voice wouldn't be heard. Every time I cried, I considered death, but I reminded myself to live: for my family and for my stories. Those two were too precious to lose.

This is my reflection on those memories. I have never forgotten those days, even now that I am much older. I forgive those who have tormented me, but I will never forget what made me who I am. Those experiences matured me into the person I am now. I do not tell this story to give comfort or words of peace. Merely, I tell my story to tell it. I hope that you, my reader, are able to take something from this. Whether it be comfort, hope, respect, or otherwise, take a message from my words and reflect.
Never forget, but always forgive and live to see another day.

Reviews

[Ruth]

Oh, this is powerful...the emotion is brillaintly conveyed and flow perfect, enjoyed :)

[E.V. Black]

Thank you, Poppy!

[WonderWhenYou'llMissMe]

When I read through the poem I really get sucked in by all the emotion.
The poem itself didn't make me cry (Although I was on the verge of tears) the author's note did.
I've been there too. Hell, I'm there right now.
I know how it feels to have all those emotions just bubbled up inside.
You expressed feelings in words that I never could. That's a tricky thing to do. Channel those emotions and make them into words is the hardest thing for most writers.
Kudos to you!