mom? dad?
i’m drowning.
swimming towards the light above,
astringent tears fill my lungs.
mom? dad?
i can’t breathe.
miniscule doses of albuterol
escaping from my little plastic inhaler
stand meager in the eyes of the overly developed fear,
prying its way up the lengths of my throat.
mom? dad?
there’s a stranger in my room.
i stand in front of the mirror
waiting for my reflection;
waiting to see that little girl,
bright, blue eyes, wide smile.
but there’s a stranger there instead;
bloodshot eyes,
inflamed scores down her cheeks,
reaking of poor judgement and broken promises.
mom? dad?
i can’t hear the music.
the floor is varnished with broken cds,
torn-up sheets of abandoned lyrics,
mutilated “i love you”s;
but the record player is still on.
turning and turning
yet i don’t hear a single note,
my senses are paralyzed
by the blow of my demolished heart.
mom? dad?
they won’t stop talking.
people.
people in my head.
voices loud as they scream profanities,
soft as they whisper lullabies,
stern as they bellow punishments.
i can’t make sense
of those who twist and tug on my heart strings
and those who wish to elongate them.
i need out.
mom? dad?
so my english teacher made us draw out a floor plan of our house and then write a poem about a memory that we came across while drawing our house. i don't think she expected to hear about the time when i laid on the floor of my bathroom for hours on end, sobbing, because another one of her students shattered my heart. oops.