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I was not raised by my sister's mother
Though the same woman raised she and me
I did not live with the same older brothers
Though we lived with the same older three

I was not cared for by the same father
As my sister had caring for her
The same person, he was, but I guess that's different
She had softness and I felt his burns.

I did not live in the same home as she
Though we both grew up on Fallow Street
I guess we're all changed by the parents we have
And more by the parents we meet

I did not have my sister's childhood
Hers seemed very soft to my eyes
While mine was a horror, tragic and bleak,
I fought very hard for my prize

My sister was raised in a different house
Different parents had she
We both grew up with the same people
But both had different families

As I got older, it took long to learn
That though we grew in the same mud,
My blood shared with her is thinner than water
For water is thicker than our blood.
The same two people raised my sister and I–JK and BK. We have the same brothers, P, N, and J. But I was raised with a mother who didn't understand me and a Father who didn't want to. She got the parents who had learned from raising me and decided to try harder with her. I got the brothers who should have protected me and all three failed to do so. She got the brothers who would have done anything for her. I love my family. I love who they are today and I am learning to love myself as well. But some days, it's so easy to remember how things were–they should have protected me. The five of them should have been my protection, but instead I had to learn to hide who I was and what horror lay beneath my smiling exterior because I had to protect myself since no one else would.
I love my family. I am fortunate to have three brothers who love me, a sister who is trying to love me, and parents who are trying to learn who I am now. It's just hard to remember my fortune when it's stained with the memories of the people I shouldn't have needed to mistrust. I should have been able to rely on them, and it still hurts no matter how much or how often I have forgiven them. I still remember.
Bri 2d
Christmas used to be cookies,
Left out for Santa
Christmas used to be hanging ornaments,
Collected over the years
Christmas used to be waking up early,
Trying to catch Santa in the act
Christmas used to be real trees,
Piled high with presents
Christmas used to be family,
Happiness, safety, and home
Christmas is now saving money,
To buy enough presents for everyone
Christmas is now plastic ornaments,
Because the old ones aren’t at this house
Christmas is now sleeping late,
The only break from life you get
Christmas is now carrying in the fake tree,
Leaving small gifts that mean nothing
Christmas is now disappointing,
Just faint memories, forgotten traditions
What Christmas used to be
Different now-
But we still pretend it’s the same
I'm an efficient mover
My first time was at seven
My mother woke me up
Before the sun could rise
Hush, "csitt", quick
The moving van arrived.
The furniture, a few,
Landed in the back,
My father crying softly,
Kissed goodbye to the cats.
My friends, neighbours,
And all we knew
Slept, as though nothing happened.

The next time I was eight,
Not much wiser than before,
My mother said she'd made a mistake,
She couldn't care for us no more.
This time there was no van,
Belongings were sold
There was only my mother
My cat
And I.
My brother left behind.
And also, the cat.
I lost so much more than it seemed
That I didn't know back then.

The third time I was twelve,
With my father stuck at work
We snuck out during the day.
I didn't change schools,
It was the same town,
A street away.
Hidden, under a tree
Hoping to never hear the fight.
My brother returned,
A girl followed,
That was our new family.
Although crowded in the same room,
For a moment,
I swear,
We were happy.

The fourth time I was fourteen,
Back into the nest we flew
Teachers said
Education is the future.
So to help with school,
We listened to the pressure
Of child services,
"A family that is together is a bigger help
Than anything else."
Except, what are you, ******* blind.

The fifth time I was fifteen,
I was put in an institution
Against my will.
It was for the best.
"Stop being selfish,
We need to save money."
What a burden, a child,
Its currency expenses.
At this one time I returned
For the weekend
My mother was gone,
She had left.

My sixth time was at eighteen,
Jumped into the arms of a boy
Who gave me an out.
A learning curve, a lesson,
One of the great mistakes of life.

My seventh time at nineteen.
Back into the house,
Helping my father get over
His drunken accidents
Tending to his scars
Trying to earn the great education
Everybody was preaching about.
It wasn't until later
My mental health came crashing.
It was time to skip
Earn some cash
See what I could make of myself.

That was my eight, twenty
Such a grown-up number,
Lived with boys,
Then older boys,
And whilst they cared for me,
I cared less for myself.
The era of failing had begun.
It took me less than six
Trying to scrape a life together
With someone I called friend
Only realising I wasn't strong enough,
So I ran.

My ninth, back into the house
My mother was back as well
Surprised her when I showed up
With a suitcase and backpack.
But in they took me
Left me to do my thing,
Let me wallow in self pity.
Ignored the demons that slept
In my bed.
They feasted on my dreams
And got stronger by the day
I carried them with me
Wherever I went.

My tenth, at twenty-two
The things I did for enough to escape
This great country of mine,
The ****** abuse, the hurtful words,
Boys will be boys,
You're too sensitive, said work.
Thank god for Tumblr.
For online friends, for all those chats
Headcanons and theories
That gave me confidence
To arrive in a country
That didn't speak my language
Despite me saying, 'sorry, what'
For the hundredth time
My love happened right on the spot
For theirs seemed unconditional.

My eleventh happened at twenty-three,
Different people formed a bond,
Late night talks, lectures, fun,
I was meant for this house.
Incredible
How much happens in a few years
For all that is worth,
I failed and grew at the same time.

My twelfth, at twenty-seven,
Bittersweet and new,
With a boy I loved and thought,
Could help me endure.
A short-lived memory
In the distance, that is.
A quick escape,
A step
Towards adult life.

My thirteenth, still at twenty-seven,
What I'm living now,
Exploring a new area,
With its medieval town.
The next season of
Something Beautiful
With the added spice of a cat.
I'm hoping not to leave.
I'm hoping not to move.
Not to make a move.
If I do, I might stir the darkness.
I shall let it sleep for now.
February, 2021
The sun is shining,
the wind is blowing,
the water is cooling —
this is summer.

The kids are playing in the pool,
the parents are watching while talking to the others—
this is summer.

But the older kids,
the new adults,
they are nowhere to be found.
They are hiding,
hiding from the empty boxes.
They are in mourning —
of their childhood.
They are letting go.
This is summer.

The older kids stay inside,
Where they hear the giggles, the joy, the laughter —
Where they hear the water splashing —
Where they will never be again.
This is summer.

The older kids remember when it was them,
with their parents,
with their friends —
but now their stomachs ache to go back.
They wonder where all of their time went.
They want to go back.
But they can’t —
they’re already leaving.
They watch the kids play in the pool
they used to called their own.
Now, the older kids are moving on.
This —
is summer.
Soph Jun 12
Summer is coming up
Should I be excited?
Should I be happy?
I used to be
And maybe I should
But I'm not

Summers aren't
What they used
To be

As a child
Summers were something
That everyone
Really, everyone
Looked forward to

So Magical

The magic that used to be
Is gone
A train that left
Gone
Never coming back

Now
Everyone is in their rooms
No one goes outside
No one does sports
No one plays ball
No one plays tag
with their friends

The magic that used to be
Will it ever come back?
Wrote this for a summer themed poetry contest
We live in a world of

Dark skies
Rays of sunshine
White lies
Adults drinking red whine

Kids with conceptions
Not being listened to
So many exceptions
Nothing to do

Imperfections
Insecurities
People and connections
Fading to obscurity

Slicing ourselves
Because we are rare
Society compels
Tempting not be there
AC May 22
i am growing up
i do not like it but yet
i am growing up
Cheyenne May 13
I miss myself.
Not me now,
but before.

Before I grew older,
and learned awful things.
Before I stopped wearing sundresses,
and pigtails in my hair.

I miss the me that didn't fall apart like glass.
I miss the me that didn't have false hope
that everything would get better.
I miss the me that didn't run from her problems.

I want the me who wanted to stand on the sun,
and reach for the clouds.
I want the me who only cried over a dropped ice cream cone,
or a broken toy.
I want the me who always smiled wide enough,
that you could see her tongue through her gapped teeth.

I want to be what I was.
I want to be happy.
I want to not care what others think.
I want to not be rocks at the bottom of the lake.

I long not to be myself.
I long to be the version that people liked,
and wanted.
Cora Smith May 8
I stand in a endless plane full of chaos and casualty
While the world spins and hugs me close
A voice whispers to not grow up in a hurry
And a mind full of creativity it shows

Forward three years I hear it again
Calling me towards history to be witness to the passage
As shielding me from the past would be in vain
For the voice says without this knowledge many shall perish

Two years pass before I hear the familiar voice once more
Saying to use that creativity and I’ll go far
I listen and my creativity I explore
And this time the voice has an avatar

Years pass and the voice has stayed by my side
As I look at the present in disgust as I see echoes of time.
A hand brushes against mine and cried
I look down to them and realize that the voice I heard was me intime
And I gladly take on the role of A voice
Paradox, don't think to much about it
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