Tag Archives: poetry

They Tried To Kill Me

They Tried To Kill Me

They tried to kill me, you know,
with their razor-sharp sideways glances,
stiletto-pointed fingers, poison-tipped scowls.
Tut-tuts, hush now, and the long silence loomed,
quiet in the hallway.
No one ever lingered there, the scene of the almost crime.

Oh yes, don’t look so surprised,
it happens all the time!
Do you really think your parents wanted you?
All helpless and hungry, crying and shitting,
and needing, needing, needing all the time!

“Let’s put it out in the cold!”,
I’ll bet that thought crossed their minds.
“Put a pillow over its mouth and be done with it!”
“Let it cry, maybe it will choke on its own tears!”
… “Let it ROT!”

No more responsibility, no more incessant noise,
no more clothing or diapers or special foods to buy.
NO MORE TIME WASTED.
“Package it up and send it back! We don’t want it!”
Why, of course they thought that.

Babies aren’t likable, you see;
they certainly can’t carry on a decent conversation,
have absolutely no thoughts on current affairs,
why, they positively reek of helplessness,
and they always want more, more, MORE!
Honestly, it’s exhausting!

“Tell it to be QUIET! Tell it to STOP CRYING!
TELL IT TO SHUT UP!!”
I can picture it now, the silent scream coming from
their mouths, like in the painting by Edvard Munch.
Messy, dirty, noisy, NEEDY, B O R I N G,
. . . terribly inconvenient.
Need I reiterate?

Blank faces, dull eyes, absent smiles.
Stop me if you’ve heard this before…
“Children should be seen and not heard.”
“Children should be small adults.”
“Children should be less … EVERYTHING … that they are.”
“Stop crying this instant!”
“STOP NEEDING ME!”

They tried to kill me, I know,
with sneering faces, eyes rolled back in disgust,
lip curled in contempt,
cigarette dangling,
wine glass in one hand,
the other leaving me out
for the garbage men.

(c) Sandi Adams
05.13.2014

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That Girl

That girl,
she wears her wounds
like battle armor,
stained with mortality.

The world,
it comes through
in black and white,
crisp with righteousness.

That pain,
it is as familiar
as breathing,
decadent with bitterness.

Her living fortress,
promising protection,
is overwhelmed by shadows.

She dreams in archetypes,
in fear and despair,
the hunted and the hemorrhaging,
she always fails before the dawn.

And letting go
is as unthinkable
as the gift of forgiveness,
a deep crevasse with no end.

(c) Sandi Adams

03.28.2013


Broken

When
I was a girl
I was broken
by your hand.
Was it like
breaking a daisy?
The ones that grew
up the street,
that I gathered up
in my arms,
but never made it
home intact.

I watched you
break me
from lowered eyelashes,
they swept my cheeks.
Never make a
sudden move,
never show that
I am here.
But it’s true,
I was not there.

My mind
taken flight,
hidden
in the tombstones
in the little graveyard
I bravely walked by,
every day.
Fresh new flowers bunched
here and here on the grass.
The dead flowers,
windswept, broken,
cried out to me.

And there,
there was my tombstone,
In my house,
in my bed,
in my fear.
The fear, so reliable,
the one thing
I can always count on.
The flight from
the center to the shadows.

I was broken
in a way that
only a child could see.
I too am a child
since the night that
I took my first flight,
lashes sweeping my cheeks,
frozen in fear.
Loving parents, nearby,
saw nothing,
heard nothing,
did nothing.
There was
no broken glass,
in that soft turn
of the door handle.

Saw nothing,
heard nothing,
did nothing,
failed to see me
breaking
a little more
every time,
over time,
frozen in time,
like the graveyard flowers
dried from the crisp night air,
breaking apart into
a million little pieces
of me.

 

(c) Sandi Adams
02.14.2013