Sticks and stones may break my bones, but
their words make me scream inside.
And I choke on it, struggling to speak,
and make myself known.
...
“Try not to let what she says get to you.” Daddy, I can’t. Everything she says is poison and I’m the med-kit without the anti-venom.
...
I Do Not Rant
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but
their words make me scream inside.
And I choke on it, struggling to speak,
and make myself known.
(I do not speak.)
I rant, and rave; you say I can form an opinion of my own, but I put forth only silence.
That my words should be heard
when in rolls the
storm cloud
over this house,
coming in like my personal hell on wheels;
the noxious humidity is thick in my nostrils
every time I (gasp for breath) between my shouting.
And I strangle the words I never said with your fancy tie,
so full of expectations like a pattern that I can’t see anything but.
But then I step back,
and see myself in the garish
fun
house
mirror
of your eyes.
I see these badly worn masks and marketable façade,
and I hate myself in your eyes- your image.
And inside, though I say nothing,
I am screaming.