bcampbell - Hello Poetry

I grew up believing that making myself small was the key to fixing my broken family. I broke my bones and cut off my limbs So I could squeeze inside their box. I made myself into something I never was, Manageable, bite-sized pieces. I made myself easy to digest. If I was able to be less of myself, I would make others whole. I believe I was the key to a mangled, unfixable lock. And all I had were bruised knuckles And black eyes And a butchered body lacking love.

0

Jun 10, 2020

Jun 10, 2020 at 1:01 PM UTC

a key to a broken lock

I grew up believing that making myself small was the key to fixing my broken family. I broke my bones and cut off my limbs So I could squeeze inside their box. I made myself into something I never was, Manageable, bite-sized pieces. I made myself easy to digest. If I was able to be less of myself, I would make others whole. I believe I was the key to a mangled, unfixable lock. And all I had were bruised knuckles And black eyes And a butchered body lacking love.

13

I grew up believing that making myself small was the key to fixing my broken family. I broke my bones and cut off my limbs So I could squeeze inside their box. I made myself into something I never was, Manageable, bite-sized pieces. I made myself easy to digest. If I was able to be less of myself, I would make others whole. I believe I was the key to a mangled, unfixable lock. And all I had were bruised knuckles And black eyes And a butchered body lacking love.

0

Jun 9, 2020

Jun 9, 2020 at 2:17 AM UTC

a key to a broken lock

I grew up believing that making myself small was the key to fixing my broken family. I broke my bones and cut off my limbs So I could squeeze inside their box. I made myself into something I never was, Manageable, bite-sized pieces. I made myself easy to digest. If I was able to be less of myself, I would make others whole. I believe I was the key to a mangled, unfixable lock. And all I had were bruised knuckles And black eyes And a butchered body lacking love.

13

I am from glowing, late night campfires, from Coppertone sunscreen and colorful thread bracelets that rested across my thin wrists. I am from the winding pavement of Riford Road, but that home isn’t what made me. I was made by the ceaseless games of capture the flag and the smoky haze of fireworks on the 4th of July, the sleepless slumber parties and the heart shaped waffles that followed the next morning. I am from the beaches of Lake Michigan and the sand that sparkles like millions of jewels in the sun. With our sticky hands covered in chocolate ice cream and the melodic cadence of waves crashing into shore, erasing our names that we wrote in the sand with our chubby fingers. I am from ultra competitive poolside games of Uno, and generations of people who either can’t say no or refuse to say yes. From Betsy and the black and white pictures that cover the walls of her home to her age-old family recipe for chocolate chip cookies. From Cullen’s bookshelf that towers over even the tallest of men, each novel packed next to each other like a can of sardines. From Jack, who’s childhood torment turned me into the person I am today, a little bit tougher and a little bit stronger. I am from the family reunions which are less of a reunion and more of a debate, every one of us desperately trying to speak the last word. From the tough, stone cold stubbornness that each of us possess like a small voice in the back of our minds egging us on. From mantras of “It could be worse” and the “It will always get betters.” I am from sugary cinnamon buns on Christmas morning, muddled by the laughter of all my cousins and the cheesy carols playing over the radio. I'm from the quaint, colorful streets of Charlevoix and the shops full of salt water taffy and their wax paper wrappers that litter the ground. A melting *** of freckled Scots and dark-haired Dutchman, all with the same wide, toothy grin. From the gooey gobs of marshmallow that stain our hands late at night, mixing with a crackling fire and waves slamming against the shore, the stars above us gleaming even brighter than the light radiating from our smiles. From jumping into ice cold swimming pools in the middle of October, my brother by my side. With our skin freckled with goosebumps and our bones chilled to the core, we splashed and laughed until our bodies were numb and our parents forced us to get out. From the lazy summer afternoons that turned into starry nights. From jumping shoulder to shoulder into the deep rivers of Montana, our laughs suffocated by the frigid water as we ricocheted downwards. I am from the small cardboard box sitting on the musty floor of our basement, teeming with memories captured at the other end of a camera. Sepia pictures of my grandmother when she was no more than three years old with her white parka and oil black hair, looking into the lens like she was seeing the entire world. Photographs of my mother at the same age as me, her eyes overflowing with optimism and a smile made of gold, all too similar to my own.

0

Jun 2, 2020

Jun 2, 2020 at 11:48 AM UTC

where i'm from

I am from glowing, late night campfires, from Coppertone sunscreen and colorful thread bracelets that rested across my thin wrists. I am from the winding pavement of Riford Road, but that home isn’t what made me. I was made by the ceaseless games of capture the flag and the smoky haze of fireworks on the 4th of July, the sleepless slumber parties and the heart shaped waffles that followed the next morning. I am from the beaches of Lake Michigan and the sand that sparkles like millions of jewels in the sun. With our sticky hands covered in chocolate ice cream and the melodic cadence of waves crashing into shore, erasing our names that we wrote in the sand with our chubby fingers. I am from ultra competitive poolside games of Uno, and generations of people who either can’t say no or refuse to say yes. From Betsy and the black and white pictures that cover the walls of her home to her age-old family recipe for chocolate chip cookies. From Cullen’s bookshelf that towers over even the tallest of men, each novel packed next to each other like a can of sardines. From Jack, who’s childhood torment turned me into the person I am today, a little bit tougher and a little bit stronger. I am from the family reunions which are less of a reunion and more of a debate, every one of us desperately trying to speak the last word. From the tough, stone cold stubbornness that each of us possess like a small voice in the back of our minds egging us on. From mantras of “It could be worse” and the “It will always get betters.” I am from sugary cinnamon buns on Christmas morning, muddled by the laughter of all my cousins and the cheesy carols playing over the radio. I'm from the quaint, colorful streets of Charlevoix and the shops full of salt water taffy and their wax paper wrappers that litter the ground. A melting *** of freckled Scots and dark-haired Dutchman, all with the same wide, toothy grin. From the gooey gobs of marshmallow that stain our hands late at night, mixing with a crackling fire and waves slamming against the shore, the stars above us gleaming even brighter than the light radiating from our smiles. From jumping into ice cold swimming pools in the middle of October, my brother by my side. With our skin freckled with goosebumps and our bones chilled to the core, we splashed and laughed until our bodies were numb and our parents forced us to get out. From the lazy summer afternoons that turned into starry nights. From jumping shoulder to shoulder into the deep rivers of Montana, our laughs suffocated by the frigid water as we ricocheted downwards. I am from the small cardboard box sitting on the musty floor of our basement, teeming with memories captured at the other end of a camera. Sepia pictures of my grandmother when she was no more than three years old with her white parka and oil black hair, looking into the lens like she was seeing the entire world. Photographs of my mother at the same age as me, her eyes overflowing with optimism and a smile made of gold, all too similar to my own.

10

America has never been great. Built on the backs of stolen people on stolen land. We’re a melting *** they say, a conglomeration of cultures and ethnicities, But words mean nothing, when time and time again our neighborhoods are filled with injustice, Our streets only know carnage. Our protectors unleash violence upon civilians and our leaders continue to justify acts of brutality. America is on fire And the smoke clears and dawn breaks, We will continue to fight for a new beginning.

0

Jun 2, 2020

Jun 2, 2020 at 11:43 AM UTC

when the smoke clears

America has never been great. Built on the backs of stolen people on stolen land. We’re a melting *** they say, a conglomeration of cultures and ethnicities, But words mean nothing, when time and time again our neighborhoods are filled with injustice, Our streets only know carnage. Our protectors unleash violence upon civilians and our leaders continue to justify acts of brutality. America is on fire And the smoke clears and dawn breaks, We will continue to fight for a new beginning.

9

You never said anything because it was him. He was the one all of the other girls dreamed of. He had the kind smile and the curly hair and you had drank too much and you had been reckless and you had acted like you wanted it. "You'll ruin him," they said. He was good kid. He had a good future. He had plans. What about him? What about his finger tips that left bruises across my hipbones? Or the way he shoved his tongue down my throat? What about all the other girls before me? And the girls after? What about me? So you keep your mouth shut. You listen to your friends talk about him in passing. And you never say anything. Because he is him and you are you.

0

May 7, 2020

May 7, 2020 at 12:05 AM UTC

why didn't you say anything?

You never said anything because it was him. He was the one all of the other girls dreamed of. He had the kind smile and the curly hair and you had drank too much and you had been reckless and you had acted like you wanted it. "You'll ruin him," they said. He was good kid. He had a good future. He had plans. What about him? What about his finger tips that left bruises across my hipbones? Or the way he shoved his tongue down my throat? What about all the other girls before me? And the girls after? What about me? So you keep your mouth shut. You listen to your friends talk about him in passing. And you never say anything. Because he is him and you are you.

27

You cannot heal in the same space that broke you. Leave. Leave behind your shattered pieces and your lonely mind. You are the only one who can put yourself back together again, free from the confines of your pain . So take your mix of brokenness, and feel yourself begin to heal. To accept. To become whole again, away from where you where fractured in the first place.

0

Mar 7, 2020

Mar 7, 2020 at 11:39 PM UTC

you cannot heal in the same place that broke you.

You cannot heal in the same space that broke you. Leave. Leave behind your shattered pieces and your lonely mind. You are the only one who can put yourself back together again, free from the confines of your pain . So take your mix of brokenness, and feel yourself begin to heal. To accept. To become whole again, away from where you where fractured in the first place.

14

I am becoming me again. With every breath I take, I feel my body expand with joy. I am learning to take myself just as I am. Incomplete. Shattered. Imperfect. Just as I am.

0

Mar 7, 2020

Mar 7, 2020 at 11:32 PM UTC

becoming, again

I am becoming me again. With every breath I take, I feel my body expand with joy. I am learning to take myself just as I am. Incomplete. Shattered. Imperfect. Just as I am.

10

We spend our nights searching for perfection. In places, in people, in things we can never have. Through the cityscapes and sunsets and the crashing waves and the ache of being alone. We chase the feelings, lost in our memories, hoping to find wholeness in places and people that don't exist.

0

Feb 15, 2020

Feb 15, 2020 at 5:35 PM UTC

perfect places

We spend our nights searching for perfection. In places, in people, in things we can never have. Through the cityscapes and sunsets and the crashing waves and the ache of being alone. We chase the feelings, lost in our memories, hoping to find wholeness in places and people that don't exist.

14

I am whole. My worth is not constructed from the love he gave me, or took away. I am whole, based off of what I give to the world. I am whole, with or without him.

0

Feb 15, 2020

Feb 15, 2020 at 4:25 PM UTC

i am whole

I am whole. My worth is not constructed from the love he gave me, or took away. I am whole, based off of what I give to the world. I am whole, with or without him.

13

The dreams i had For myself Are so diluted, So clouded By the mess inside my Own brain. I am not happy. I am not whole. And I look back At everything I lost, Begging for another change. For one more do-over. Maybe if I could do it again I would be happy.

0

Jan 27, 2020

Jan 27, 2020 at 12:19 PM UTC

what i lost

The dreams i had For myself Are so diluted, So clouded By the mess inside my Own brain. I am not happy. I am not whole. And I look back At everything I lost, Begging for another change. For one more do-over. Maybe if I could do it again I would be happy.

14