Defining the LineA Poem by Not Afraid of BruisesLunch and that Cafeteria food.
But I,
Have a brown bag a miracle bag…with cookies.
Lard-based cookies that
I don’t particularly like.
I open that packet,
The rustle of calories
Building on my butt, breasts, body.
I am nine years old.
Impressionable and overemotional
As so unused to
Defending myself, the youngest of three
Lowest of the food chain, I never had to
Deal with sisterly abuse,
My mom took care of that.
Shut doors, avoidance
Took care of that.
So the whisper hit hard-
that slimy almost preteen who voiced
“No wonder she’s so fat.”
Shock, the awe-factor
The I-can’t-believe-he-would-say-that-in-front-of-me
Factor
I wonder what they say when I’m gone…
Blood quickly drains and leaves face pale
And then the flush comes,
Turing cheeks, nose, forehead a bright red.
Then comes the recovery, the instant damage control complete with
An urgent bathroom run – yes, this is an emergency.
I spit, sputter Oreo lard, the graininess in my mouth
Now a sickening plop in the
Toilet I think I’m going to be sick.
Not the first time. Not the last.
The day moves on as if nothing happened as feet find their path
Bus, home homework, dinner-
No dessert. Anger. I fear it hate it but it
Rushes at me and still, somehow
I only react as people expect, tears, whines, or
Silence.
Years later and
my doctor says I am perfect in my roundness
And I can’t…I won’t…
Trust is hard to rebuild.
Then the truth comes softly and painfully when
Skinny girls sporting various hues
say with encouragement
“daaaaammmn” whenever I am
Brave enough to flash a bit of skin.
So forget you and your opinions, no one is listening
Your words can’t limit me anymore – I’m drawing the line.
So screw it so well that your bubble world goes limp
And moldable and your mind fogs to distant.
Not afraid, huh?
Not so meek anymore,
I shave my grudging outrage years after
This clay mold hardens,
Unfortunately still polite, mild and very solid.
And soon, anger isn’t so unreasonable,
illegal.
I might have a breast reduction before I’m twenty-five and I
Might prefer to drink OJ with pizza rather than soda, and
Maybe when I was little I swallowed a few too many
Ego-inflated pills
In the form of comments, favors, and abuses…
But if I cut my wrist and you cut yours
We will both die bleeding the same shade of red, and
I bet,
I bet that my overemotional and defined blood will
Stain longer,
Run stronger
And die faster than yours, quiet without complaint
No loose ends scrambling to clutch me to this earth.
I will find freedom in the fact
That my existence was defined by no one, nothing but me. © 2008 Not Afraid of BruisesFeatured Review
Reviews
|
Stats
580 Views
14 Reviews Added on February 13, 2008 AuthorNot Afraid of Bruisessomewhere beyond the Tagglewood, RIAboutVisit my website at http://www.caseyomalley.com/default.aspx! News: I was accepted for publication at the Sandy River Review (03/29/09)! PLEASE NOTE: I maybe be only 19, but I have been readin.. more..Writing
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|