Ugly
I am five
Learning how to waddle
Mama hates me
Everyday she reminds me why
I am ugly
Faded, no yellow furry feathers
My mama says
"You are ugly as sin"
I see myself
A repulsive reflection in the pond
Mama tells me
To go drown in the pond
Sister was ugly
A sinner drowned in the pond
I often wonder
Could I forget how to swim?
I'm not brave
But Mama made me see
Worms consumption
Still feeding; still helping her rot
I see my image
Her face trapped in a scream
Violence
My worst nightmare is violence. No question.
Violence begins as a conversation normally, what then follows is an argument, after that comes shouting, after shouting comes yelling, after yelling comes verbal abuse, after verbal abuse comes violence.
Slapping and pushing at first, it quickly escalates into clenched fists and punching, then blood appears, and tempers flare, and reason goes out of the window, and then weapons appear.
Before long someone is injured.
Violence, oh did I grow up with it all and boy, do I recognise violence in its infancy.
Even now, as an ex infantryman am I wise enough to detest violence in all its forms.
I know how it starts and I know how it ends, and it proves zilch. Nothing.
Violence is my worst nightmare.
I grew up surrounded by it.
It is my worst nightmare.
Nightmare
My hands tremble
As I thread the needle.
Beside me, she is bleeding.
So much blood.
I tied the knot
Around the eye,
And another in the end.
She is still bleeding,
And I heard her toddler's voice
Whimper.
She is my baby sister,
And she is cut
From the throat
To the pelvis.
I push the needle through her skin,
Carefully hurrying,
And ask her to be still.
She looks into my eyes
And I see torment.
Help me,
I tell my brother.
Help me
Hold the wound shut.
His large hands
Push her delicate skin together
And I push the needle through again.
It hurts her,
I can see this,
But I pray
That this pain will save her.
I pray
As I push the needle through
Again
And again.
-
I awake
With tears in my eyes
And blood,
So much blood,
Between my fingernails.
