Built myself a boat out of the grief-
frightful contraption cast out to sea,
held snug together by raw belief
and an offering of all of me-
fashioned out an airplane from my rage-
(how deep will the pain go)
fly over the past- mountains, pits…cage…
Over it all now- untethered, like a bird-
my soul’s a swell in my breastbone,
just a girl blanketed in some words,
it’s all behind me now- it’s all atoned.
if there’s any trace of pain
I paint over its black and blue,
oh you unsightly stain,
no one wants to see you.
oh you winter waif, starved and thin,
no one wants to know where you’ve been.
it’s important to be rebel, runaway-
a haughty display for the world to admire-
they respect those that leave the fray,
those that bury the ruins and burn the ire.
if I chose to never to speak of it all,
is it really gone? well, it lives nowhere now.
and, who can I write to, who can I call,
(if I choose to return to the wreckage, somehow)
if I wear the face of stranger and speak a stranger’s drawl,
and my letters are a stranger’s scrawl,
I built a home out of all this damn shame,
brick upon brick cast in lonely flame,
hands bloodied with the weight of loss and sin-
in this new house, I will never let the demons in.
in this new house, I still sleep huddled in a bed of bad dreams-
people see what they want to see, and name things just what they seem.