The Unseen And Dismissed Poem by Caitlin Zelia

When I was seven, I was told
I had a strong imagination.
I saw things that weren't there—
things that didn't belong.
But not often.

When I was eight, I was told
I had a strong imagination.
I heard what others couldn't,
things I shouldn't have heard.
But not often.

When I was nine, I was told
I had a strong imagination.
I spoke to people no one else could speak to.
I shouldn't have spoken to them.

When I was ten, I was told
I had a strong imagination.
I saw tall, dark figures
no one else could see.
Not so often.

When I was eleven, I was told
I had a strong imagination.
I heard eerie whispers
others couldn't.
Not often.

When I was twelve,
my imagination didn't matter.
I still spoke to the slender shadows
that followed me.
They showed me their world.
Frequently.

When I was thirteen, I was lost.
The shadows came closer.
No one else saw them.
No one else felt them.
I was alone.

When I was fourteen, I was trapped.
They whispered—
loudly—
"Just one more time, "
telling me what to do.
I listened.

I'm fifteen. I'm haunted.
They're everywhere.
They follow,
they whisper,
they listen,
they watch.

I feel their presence in every room.
I hear them.
I listen.
I obey.
I do as I'm told.

I'm haunted.
I'm controlled.

Now I look into the mirror
that my bloody hands still hold.
Those demons, those monsters—
were just
my shell,
so old.

And the love in my heart…
so cold.