Skip to main content

Nine Years in silence

Treating me like a princess-
I've never been treated like that before.
I don't know what a princess would demand
Does she have any demands at all?
I ask for you to do things and you get them done
but today was very different,
you have had enough.

why of all the days did i decide
to ask you to do this
to make you believe it had to be done.
when it came to the close,
X  was pressed twice,
the screen blanked out
then you started to explode
all i hear you repeat is 'quiet' 'be quiet' 'just shut up'
lucky am i for not being another person for this is truly not
an explosion, i am told
lucky am i for having your love or i'd have been thrown to the curb

Nothing seemed different from other past  requests
I was confused, dumbfounded, unsure of myself
why of all the days did you pick today
why could you not tell me this those times that I asked
your only demand is for my silence- well deserved
you lived in silence, you breathed in silence then i came in and never stopped making noise
i was told silence is not golden
now i understand selective silence is what i should aim for
that is my demand
of myself
for you.

Because silent I am not
nor i ever will
be able to shut things in
when everyone else is still
i like to scream and yell but I have lost my way
In silence lies mysteries
which anxiety tries to unravel
it charges the silence that is pure of holding evil
and then the day finally came for silence to reveal
that it does not sit there to be pushed around, to be beat upon, to be used by anxiety because it cannot see
that all the mysteries lie within she.
i am my own enemy.


Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Dream #414

I was on a bus on my way to a new school, a high school on the south side of Chicago. I transferred to that school because I had moved into the area. The bus went south over a dark brick road bridge--it was dark because it was a gloomy day out--like the sky was heavy with rain. This new school was completely new--metal framework with floor-to-ceiling windows, open floors. The class body was mixed, with a majority being black and white students. I went to the second floor to wait in line at a check-in window. A very chatty boy behind me bumped into me and as I turned to look at him, we both felt an immediate attraction--we are both brown, we are both alternative. I'm reminded of my husband, I remembered I have a husband--maybe in that life or another--so I keep the boy in mind to feel less alone but ignore him as I wait in line. I'm outside in the vast woods that is the campus of the high school. There is a pond and there are green rolling hills of different sizes, all moving l...
Post a Comment
Read more

everything, everything, In my mind

everything happens for a reason. We need to find out what that reason is. you can't fix anything until you fix what's already been broken. everything that is happening to you is all caused by things you've already done. the reason: trying to be just like him. you did what he did when we lived in the south side. your doing it because you want him to be proud of you, to love you; and in away, you also did it because he didn't love you. Because he thought you were useless. you are not. I always wondered why we are so different when we all grew up together. Maybe because the way we each perceive the world is different; the way we choose to cope is unique to that. THAT is something that is formed. We are the way we are, and the way our brain and soul perceive is the way we react in our worlds. We are each a time portal. Since we are walking it we can't really see where we are going. We need to see outside the box; in some else's shoes; from the outside in. W...
Post a Comment
Read more

House/Home

I didn't know of any Latina writers growing up. Of the Latino writers I knew of, I knew their long pieces of work, their novels. Novels is what real writers did. Short pieces come from poets. If you want to write short pieces, you should be a poet. This is what I had learned when I was a child. When I learned about The House on Mango, I wasn't taught about the book nor about the writer, but I saved her name: Sandra Cisneros, a published writer, a published Latina writer. When I finally has the chance to get the book, I flipped through it and was immediately heartbroken--It wasn't a novel. I was still under the impression that great writers are novelists and instead of seeing the praise given to the book as a sign of great writing, I took it as a mockery. I took it as if the literary world was mocking the ability of Latina writers, as if short stories were the only thing we could do. It's complicated now for me to talk about what I felt because in truth it had nothing ...
Post a Comment
Read more