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Katie Mar 2019
i am forgotten memories:

smell of the milk
gone sour
in the back of the
bottom shelf of the
fridge.

sound like the muffled cries
and broken screams
drowned out by the
newest- catchy
radio 'bop'.

feel of the fingernails
and rusty scissor blades
in far left desk-drawer
on skin.

look like the purple
bags on pale skin,
clenched teeth,
red knuckles.

i do not know my name,
it is better this way.
Katie Feb 2019
red
In the summertime,
in Michigan,
I wore my feet bare.

Let them:
Blister and burn
on the sticky black pavement.
Skin broken on sharp
little pebbles.

Let the:
sticky popsicle syrup
mix with blood.
Red and blue-
like the of Fourth of July.

Feel the:
Skin transform,
harden, callous,
an armor of scaly skin.

My brother
caught a snake, once.
Proud little fists,
hoisting in the air.

But:
Proud little fists
squeeze too tight.
Red- like the Fourth of July.
Katie Jan 2019
I pick at the
          dry skin
on my knuckles
when I think about You.

"I'm sorry"
hospitals make me
nervous-
make me tick.

Selfish
          Little Girl
too scared
(too high)
to visit You.

what can I say
Big Brother?
You make me tick,
make my skin-
itch.
Katie Jan 2019
yellow
                                                  used to be my favorite color
                                      i could live
                                                         within its warmth.

                                  but our kitchen was green:
                                 green and white
                                                      wallp­apered stripes.

                and those stripes
                                 weren't warm--
                                              they were filled
                                                                ­    with pain and hate.

      my mother
                               tired from the cold,
                           tore down
                             down!
                                          that ugly
                                                                ­    kitchen wallpaper.

                        clawing at the walls
                        she broke it
                                     into bits.

              yellow paint
                                       then filled the walls;
                                                         a promise of a change.

                                 but like all good things,
                             yellow too
                                                  seemed to fade.

                      my little kitchen,
                               are you why
                                      yellow
                ­                                      now brings
                                                                ­ me pain?
Katie Dec 2018
The sound of snow is quite loud,
if you take the time to listen to it.

Much louder than you would expect
from the sparkling peaceful facade
that masks its utter loudness.

A single step upon it send the sound,
in all of its snapping and crackling,
traveling through your foot
and upwards to your ears.

In a peculiar sort of way,
the snow seems to revolt
against the pressure of your weight.

If you listen close enough
you can hear it's cries and protests
fill the air around you
in a frenzy of crackling and snapping.

Snaps and crackles rattle your eardrums;
they are the snow's fruitless objections
to the weight of your step.

Then, with a sigh of defeat,
the snow gives way
to a bed of ice beneath
in a final, satisfactory crunch.

And all the while,
the snowfall continues to pour down
from the sky above you.
As you walk step by step,
listening.
Katie Dec 2018
dear Mother--

like nails on a chalkboard
the sounds of your
Cruel Words
hurt.

a biting, pinching, sharp
little hurt.
a string, a twinge.

it felt like a
punch, an ache
a WHAM!
each day
You ignored Me.

Mother, did you
forget Me?
your Daughter,
your girl?

your hate
no-
your disdain
no-
your disregard
for Me
feels like ice in My veins.

you've poisoned My heart.

do You remember?
I grew inside You
came from your flesh.

dear Mother--
is this your revenge?
Katie Oct 2018
To love him is to hurt,
          to ache,
          to scream,  
          to break.

Big brother
how
          little
he seems.

To love him is to hate him.
           angry little thoughts--
           sharp and pointy.
cutting away--
            ration and reason.

Bye-bye big brother
             hello hospital
knock-knock go policemen
             come to take him away.

To love him is to fear him
              fear for him
              fear his mind has gone astray.
Fear his mania--
              his psychosis--
              his rage.

But to be his sister is to love him,
              and as his sister,
              I will stay.
#bipolar #brother #family
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