In poetry
the past becomes
present tense to me
as I try to present it
truthfully.

Sixteen years of pain
burst like a blood bubble,
as I shatter into rubble,
delving deep into
the despair of
parental persecution.

Plaster white particles
dust the tips of my knuckles
as a thin trickle
of dark red rolls down
the back of my hand.

Friends stand around
comforting me.
They do not respond
angrily
to my outburst.

Tears of frustration
stretch down my cheeks
as I struggle to speak,
cause I am unable
to tell them everything.

Even now as I write
in the middle of my
mostly happy life,
I struggle to express
this unhappiness
without allowing it
to consume me again.