"havisham" poems - Hello Poetry

Back in 2003 I found a piece of me buried, like a shard of pottery, in the sandbox. A Hot Wheel’s car, little rusted with one tire missing that I used to shove in the little zippered flap of my Powerpuff Girls backpack. Older, fifteen, I carved another piece of me out and pasted it to a vanilla letter, sliding the envelope through the slits in his locker door, and I lost it. I’m not even sure he read it. Nineteen, faded and little stolen, I threw another piece of me into my mother’s grave. Plush petals, rosary beads, crystal liquid drops infused with microscopic memories. I cut myself in slivers and jammed uneven edges together just to gusto the void, compact the space, walk solid. And now, twenty-three, I press my face against a mirror and slide my arms into a flannel, grandpa, hammy-down. You took the last piece. You crawled into my guard, tore the lining and spit your black blood on the blank memoirs I had hanging next to the split. Take me, now, if that’s how it’s gunna be. You wanna live with the dust bunnies in my baggage? Feed off my insecurities, my staggered breath, or my mercury dreams? I don’t want to be saved. I’ve made my own maze with only one way out, so you’re trapped in the Miss Havisham model I’ve made, rotten cake. Build yourself a new girl from my discards, suckle the marrow from my bones, and blow, like a glass ornament, a pretty replica of who I am. Isn’t that what you wanted? Wasn’t that part of the chase? The sweet idea that you could pull some perfect women out of the rubble? I bet that’d be nice to show off, you ******* But here’s the catch, I know I’m broken. You don’t need to remind me. So take the smiles I’ve learned to draw on my lips for two cents, and give up the **** fight I know you won’t win.

0

Dec 14, 2014

Dec 14, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC

sophie-herzing

Settle

Back in 2003 I found a piece of me buried, like a shard of pottery, in the sandbox. A Hot Wheel’s car, little rusted with one tire missing that I used to shove in the little zippered flap of my Powerpuff Girls backpack. Older, fifteen, I carved another piece of me out and pasted it to a vanilla letter, sliding the envelope through the slits in his locker door, and I lost it. I’m not even sure he read it. Nineteen, faded and little stolen, I threw another piece of me into my mother’s grave. Plush petals, rosary beads, crystal liquid drops infused with microscopic memories. I cut myself in slivers and jammed uneven edges together just to gusto the void, compact the space, walk solid. And now, twenty-three, I press my face against a mirror and slide my arms into a flannel, grandpa, hammy-down. You took the last piece. You crawled into my guard, tore the lining and spit your black blood on the blank memoirs I had hanging next to the split. Take me, now, if that’s how it’s gunna be. You wanna live with the dust bunnies in my baggage? Feed off my insecurities, my staggered breath, or my mercury dreams? I don’t want to be saved. I’ve made my own maze with only one way out, so you’re trapped in the Miss Havisham model I’ve made, rotten cake. Build yourself a new girl from my discards, suckle the marrow from my bones, and blow, like a glass ornament, a pretty replica of who I am. Isn’t that what you wanted? Wasn’t that part of the chase? The sweet idea that you could pull some perfect women out of the rubble? I bet that’d be nice to show off, you ******* But here’s the catch, I know I’m broken. You don’t need to remind me. So take the smiles I’ve learned to draw on my lips for two cents, and give up the **** fight I know you won’t win.