Tuesday, January 8, 2013


I don’t believe in 25

The magic happens at 16 and possibly 17

a quick flash from a  disposable camera and then it’s over

left-over Chinese food and spilt milk

this is what I will leave you with

when I leave your house

the crumbs on your fire-escape

a trail to nowhere in particular


If someone had warned me that I would wake up

And suddenly feel old before my time

In a car in the middle of the highway

Bumps and clanks me around

And I am so far from the womb I came from

So far from the shrill cries of teenage angst

And whatever it is you people do nowadays


Once I wondered if I’d grow up to be a brighter bulb

And platinum bombshell queen of the underground

I grew up scared


I was a tiny scratch on your record

A whisper in the trees

A voice so hoarse and soft

Only your flesh knows the words

Your mouth cannot fathom


I told her that she’d begin to grow up

Just like me

If she made all the right mistakes

The ones with boys in cars

And the ones where she picks up the wrong thing

Smokes something


I knew there’d come a time

Where she’d wake up with a buzz

In her ears


It would  seem

But the flicker is gone

And the static remains

Adjusting the bunny-ears on an old television

Nothing makes sense

Everything would fall like white snow

On a black screen

One day she’d wake up—thirty

With bills to pay and an unclean kitchen

One day she’d learn to pray

Hard and fast

Wake up in a pant—

“God grant me the serenity…”

One day she’d wake up in a haze of

Soup cans and one word answers

But nothing can be explained

Or solved or fathomed with one word


I was always my mother’s daughter

Her skin- alabaster white

I’d always aim to please

Bend and twist to suit her needs

I’d lay flat on the floor if she needed to walk over me


Once I wrote the melodies

You play on repeat in your heart

An over-used music box that knows the song

Slightly off key and a little bit delayed

My mother is magic and too big to fit inside a poem

Or a hallmark card

She is black boots and eyeliner

She is brash and spectacular

She knows all the answers

And she is nothing like me

Scared and shy, pretending to be



lavender rose said...

Wow i absolutely love this poem, it reminded me of something Sylvia Plath would write. It's so vivid and real and from the heart (or imagination) but i absolutely love this poem, well written =)

Murder She Wrote said...

Thanks so much lavender! I really appreciate it!!