Ouch G. Hetrick

Rookie (21 March / California, USA)

Scarlet - Poem by Ouch G. Hetrick

At the punch of a clock,
the birds make their unwelcome
noise because they just do.
They're crows.

I get up.
It's a cold morning.

My breath tracks up a smoke,
a signal that the petty, old
house hasn't snugged itself in warmth,
which means I forgot to turn on the heater.

But the house was always warm before.
It had a crisp sense of assurance.
That was before she was gone.
She left me so close but so far.
But the house was always warm before.
I become redundant now.

There is still some broken glass
to pick up on the wooden floor.
The room was a mess of opened, but empty,
furniture. Her clothes, her things,
my money....my money. She took it all.
She took every belonging.

I hear the noise. The punch of voices
in my head. Can't I see you?
Scarlet, aren't you there?
I'm alone and afraid. Oh, please,
come back...

Nothing spoke to me. It was a weak attempt
of life to move from the room to the kitchen.
The refrigerator was open.
There was still food inside. At least she left some.
She knows I love food.

I grab a scattered chair and, I sit on it,
arching my back. I feel like the Paranoid Android.
There is still some broken glass
to pick up on the wooden floor.

Is this my doing? Do I have to suffer this?
If I pleaded would it be enough, or more?
She was there for me, wasn't she?
Scarlet, are you not there in my heart?

I hear the noise. The punch of voices
in my head. Can't I see you?
Scarlet, aren't you there?
I'm alone and afraid. Oh, please
come back, Scarlet!

Please, come back.
Is this enough or more?
I can't suffer any longer!
When it comes to my decisions,
I make every wrong deduction.

I ponder in my head and how.
I have my head down
and my eyes circulate water.
On the floor is a mess of glass.
My tears trickle down on it.

I see the horrible monster who did this.
He's crying like me.
He's on a chair, in the most pitiful state.
He screams the Scarlet I love,
the one I can never have back.

He's shedding a waterfall like me.
He's sitting on a stool.
He breathes the Scarlet I love,
the one I can never have back.

He's tired like me.
He's afraid of getting off the chair.
He wants to die for the Scarlet I love,
the one I can never see again.

Knocks. Knocks.
The door is wide open.
Outside is the every day of my life:
a well kept lawn, a lazy, orange sun
and some smell of wet dog.

It's the afternoon already.
I should do something.
So what am I waiting for?

I pick up the mess and sweep
back to my room. I put a change
of clothes and pick up my shoes
and go.


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Poem Submitted: Friday, April 13, 2012

Poem Edited: Friday, October 5, 2012


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