A poetic journey through my mind

Posts tagged “runaway

The Bad Thing

Softly she stumbles,
Silently weeping,
Down past the rooms where her children lie sleeping,
Down the dark stairs she goes cautiously creeping,
No light required, her feet know the way.

On one hand soft fingers hold tear stained note lightly,
The other a fist on which knuckles show whitely,
Fear, rage and shame are all mingling tightly,
As outside the nighttime brightens toward day.

Soon she’ll be leaving the note so deceiving,
her heart deep in grieving for memories lost, while upstairs the villain snores loudly, sleeps soundly, midst blankets and pillow as if by storm tossed.

And young ones will wonder at lives torn asunder, how silently thunder can come in the night, filling lifes pages with a nightmare of rages, forcing the caged bird to finally take flight.

Nightmare (Trigger warning: graphic images, child abuse, sexual abuse)

This one was hard.  It is very personal and isn’t very good, but I couldn’t stand to look at it too long so it stays as it is for now.  It was written partly in response to a prompt about Nightmares…and partly because it needed to get out.  I may yet feel inspired to put the prose version…the complete version…up, but not for a while yet.

blistered feet on lonely road,
mornings defiance fades with the heat,
the confident step with which she strode
replaced with a slower, faltering beat.

determination and childish pride
force her, limping, up the road
dreaming of air-conditioned ride
and respite from her heavy load.

dusty pickup, man inside,
caution makes her stop and think
to run or stay and take the ride
his weight provides the missing link

his bulbous size and her sleek form
make the decision practical
should he seem beyond the norm
she’ll run from him with movements tactical.

so into the cab go grateful feet
a smile for his reward
perched carefully on edge of seat
pretending to be slightly bored

a story slips from brain to tongue
a husband, and a runaway,
though surely he knows she is too young
he nods and listens anyway

asking questions quite unfit
for newmade “friends” of any age
but as she thinks she asked for it
she babbles on as if onstage

her destination made clear
he offers refreshment for the trip
promise of sugar stills her fear
and in his eyes the shadows rip

pop and pastry in her lap
they head once more toward the road
a hunter who waits to close the trap
he sighs, as if with heavy load.

he works “right here” in wooded plots
future happy family homes
the marked out “streets” are lined with lots
and at each end, a houses bones.

he must sign out from his work
and with him she cannot be found
so will she wait here in the murk
till he, with quickness, comes back round?

fear and guilt shake out a yes,
while denial has its say,
she sits inside the half-built mess
and hears the truck go on its way

she wanders to the open door
gazing out into the eve
at endless street and woods and more
that wait for her if she should leave

mind wraps heart in muffling song
the greyness coats her sight
body eats from habit strong
and dusk deepens to night

at last the pickups headlights beam
like screams they light the street
her limbs are lead or so they seem
and trash lies at her feet

he seems surprised to see her there
but quickly his smile returns
he brushes one hand through her hair
and behind his eyes he burns

do me a favor, please, he mumbles
his hand upon her shoulder
standing she moves without a stumble
the grey cocoon grows colder

what happens next she’ll never tell
the darkness hides it from her
only the awakening and the smell
the rest is a shivery blur

I’m sorry, he cries, I always am,
but I can’t seem to help it
I’ll make it up to you, I always do
and I’ll never do it again!

The words are lost in heartbeats roar
she pulls her ruined armor on
she thinks at least he’ll do no more
but his cruelty is still not gone

a worn out twenty dollar bill
is stuffed into her hand
the shame flares hard enough to kill
but he doesn’t understand

shuffling back to the cab of the truck
curling into herself
she struggles to feel, but breathes only muck
the world way up high, on a shelf.