under a table,
behind the door
where nothing is cleaned
not even the floor.
there, lies a body,
collected with dust
piled under splinters, cobwebs, and rust.
its breathing, though ceased,
by a soul, never noticed
the family moves on
never wishing to know it.
roaches and rats snigger with glee,
as the body decays,
first a hand, then a knee.
but, a moment's not passed,
when a slam of the door
finds that He has returned,
to take one thing more.
He looks and he scowls,
finding, perhaps, one thing of use...
a leg of the thing
he once had abused,
"Good for a table,
this leg might be!
but its so sickly, and thin,
what use is it to me?"
he examined the leg,
for a minute or less
and finally said,
with no shortage of breath
"what good were you girl? you did nothing for me.
not this house, not this wallet...
not this family!
for you sat and you sulked,
and you fell on the floor,
and it was quite hard to hide
that you looked such a sore.
and you'd cry and you moan,
until finally you stopped,
but even then, you'd not budge
for a sponge or a mop!
what good were you,
to exist in this way?
where you slept in a bed,
for which, i had to pay?
if you left us much sooner,
before we could see
your bruised little leg and dis-located knee,
we might have not stopped you
from growing so vast,
if you had been good,
if you had worked fast!
But, if you had died,
and we knew then
what we do now,
we could have left you
much sooner, you cow!
but since you've survived,
and we've taken your all,
We must do it ourselves,
and bury you whole."
and the girl, as she slumped
on those wooden floorboards,
did not kick or punch,
or demand her own words,
for she knew how He felt,
when he saw such a sight,
her skin and her bones, were,
Oh!
quite a fright...
but she did decide
that she'd mention one thought,
for it left and gone
without once being taught.
And this was who she was
cracks, bones, and skin,
with wishes and hopes,
in loss or win.
for the love of all
she, weekly, would pray,
that she might be able
to love one, someday.
she looked up once more,
to the hand holding her knee,
and she spoke such a truth,
which made her instantly free:
"you knew me not here,
nor when i was born,
and certainly not now,
though, my legs, you have torn.
Look at this body,
my blue skin and bones,
and KNOW there's one thing
you never have known!
that this sunken-in skull,
which longed for a dream,
within it, still lives
some incredible things!
Though leaving this world,
though no good for you,
though, you threw me your scraps,
if you threw just a few,
I'll fly and I'll live
past all of your years,
you have not a soul,
you shed not a tear!
O, timeless I'll be,
despite lack of drink
but look at you, sir,
your head does not think!
Yes!
Look at me now,
while withered
I may be,
and know this you bore,
you never knew me!"
*TRIGGER WARNING* (themes of depression, abuse, isolation, generally non-so-happy verbiage)
----
I like to write things that let me express inner emotions...
While a lot of it is pretty grim, I think the ending is sort of empowering because the person in the poem has this sort of message (lesson?) that the Other never "knew" her.
I can't really describe why I find this comforting... I guess because it sort of shows that the very people who do so much wrong to us never really knew us, so there is/was a part that they can never touch, betray, or understand. Meaning, we have won... we have kept a part of ourselves unharmed even if it's a minute part that holds dreams and beliefs and whatever else.. I wonder if anyone can relate.
