From the street
the house is small now.
It aptly sits on a steet
called "Division."
It has no fence,
only pealing paint,
patchy grass
and ghosts.
You can see them
peering out the windows.
Feel them slamming
that screen door.
I still hear the rhythmic
sound of flip flops and begin
to feel that dread
in the pit of my stomach.
I still hate my name
with that inflection she used.
I don't vividly remember her
though I remember how she intimidated.
I remember the tone of her voice
if not the voice, exactly.
I remember vowing then not to
admit her blood ran through my veins.
Except now...I said it.
...almost out loud.
And the house is just a photo
in my camera.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Immaculate Melancholy
I have lived in that street of ghosts and memories, black and white photographs of all the things remembered I love this so much, perhaps I lived in the house next door...it is raining here tonite and I feel like crying
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How ironic is it that a street named 'Division' adds up to memories that you would rather have subtracted from your mind? Thanks for sharing your thoughts with me.
Sincerely,
Leo Long
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Poignant
This is a painful memory well described. The emotion is raw, vivid and real. The up side of all of this is that the words come from an enlightened and aware mindset that is capable of discerning between dark memories and the here and now.
Maddie I appreciate you sharing this, it feels like a cathartic write.
Henri
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Thank you so much, Henri, for your warm and heartfelt comment. It definately was a cathartic write.
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