They Try To Erase Me
I never had been born. It was old hands
that sketched my frame. Hands that knew how to suffer
wisely. It was a gift
to my bones, a curse that shifts
with weight and time.
Clocks wait on scales to tip time. I am rushed.
Blood cycles through my life.
Old lines outline my eyes. I am timed.
I slept with a man
and was traced. He recreated me; my child.
My simple face on a prettier canvas.
I didn’t wish for this.
I didn’t dream.
She just belongs to me.
I drag my bones along aching seas
each step pains deeper with memory,
Dark lines shade over mine.
They try to erase me
From my bones, I cry.
I cannot be
an easy sketch of a memory.
Posted on May 13, 2014, in Poetry and tagged adolescent literature, Aging, anxiety, art, being a parent, Body parts, bone, Borderline Personality Disorder, child birth, Chronic pain, dark poetry, Depression, drawing, emptiness, fear of intimacy, fears, Fibromyalgia, hallucinations, journal, life, loneliness, Mental Health, mental illness, motherhood, pain, Paranoia, parenting, physical pain, poetry, Regret, rheumatoid arthritis, sadness, Schizophrenia, sketching, teen, teen poetry, time, writing. Bookmark the permalink. 16 Comments.