Some people say my poetry isn't deep enough.
That its good, but its not deep enough.
Where's the pain? They ask.
The anguish? They want to know.
The daddy issues, the drug addiction, the suicide and rape.
The moments whereby wished to just stop your breath.
Because apparently this is the definition of depth.
But see,
I refuse to write sad poetry.
I refuse to relive it.
I refuse to revisit that dark place within myself.
But I could.
I could paint literary pictures
Of stretch marks stretched across shoulders and breasts and stomach on a body that grew too much too fast.
Tell stories of pretending to try on clothes in the dressing room
Because I don't want to know they don't fit.
Averting my eyes when I leave the shower
Because who wants to see this naked?
I could explain to you how they called me ugly.
How I couldn't see it at first
So I stared In the mirror until I found it.
Seeing my fathers big nose and my mothers eyes
But where it fit his face, it distorted mine,
My eyes brown and dull while hers would brightly shine.
How I wished sticks and stones would break my bones so I wouldn't have to go to school.
I could write about how no one was there.
No friends to make them leave me alone, no solace given when I got home.
No friends not treated just like me.
She, with cuts on her wrists
And he, with pills in his bag.
The problem children.
And me.
With no external scars but a self esteem criss crossed with welps from the beatings I took from them.
Me, who was made to stand in the back of the bus with the other rejects there want room for.
Me.
Who had paper balls thrown from the back of the class.
Being told it wasn't fair to tell the teacher because I was such a big target and they needed their practice.
So I didn't.
Me, who couldn't are the insecurities of big Brittany, two or three times bigger than me
Who ridiculed me.
All I could think was, well then how big must I be?
I could write novels
Thick as the blood I thought of spilling, but never did.
Because then I'd be the butchered pig.
I could tell you how I hated me.
I disgusted ME
Do you know what that's like?
To look in the mirror and hate what u see?
I hated me for my weight, I hated me for my face,
Hated me for the weakling I became.
So don't tell me I'm not deep enough
Bc u don't know what's inside me.
I'm not talking about the pain and humiliation of being teased.
I'm talking about ME
the baby girl inside me.
The one who wanted to cry when she got home every day,
Who could never tell her mom for the shame.
Who took it all in silence,
Who remains silent,
Who never cries, never speaks.
She had no voice to speak up for herself, not just then, but now.
But with my poems I tell her you are loved.
Not just by parents charged with your care
Or friends who only kept u around bc they felt better about themselves with u there.
But by me.
Me who went through
I sweated, I bled, I cried for you,
Bit I refused to die for you.
I refused to allow a beaten heart and shattered pride to end me.
I refused to manifest all that I,
That you,
That WE went through to paper.
Bc sometimes she wants to come out.
Take my pen, use my hands
Write her rage across the page in blood red strokes,
Swallow the paper and make herself choke on the bitter silence.
I could let her.
I could tell you everything.
Reveal and expose baby girl in my lines,
Let these rhymes be the manifest of her pain.
And maybe, MAYBE
it would help.
Maybe expressing myself
And venting through art would make her go away.
In my poetry, maybe I should say
"I was bullied
I considered suicide,
I have self esteem and trust issues"
But it hurts her.
So in my poetry I tell you instead that I am The Genesis.
Not just bc it sounds better than little girl with self esteem issues trying to make herself feel better.
But bc who you see before you is the new beginning.
The resurrection of that little girl.
She needs me
To tell me how special she is, and always was.
Bc you see, she can't head anyone else.
She cringes when they open their mouths,
afraid of what they'll say.
Her eardrums bleed when touched with voices
bc she's learned to be afraid
Compliments and criticisms alike fall on deaf ears
Bc baby girl refuses to hear.
But she listens.
To me.
But only when I write poetry.
So was this poem deep enough?
Was their anguish enough for you? Am I deep enough?
I hope so
Bc this is the last time, this poem the last of its kind.
I refuse to make her relive it.
I refuse to make her revisit the memories and nightmares.
I refuse to write sad poetry.
And baby girl
I'm sorry.