“I don’t create poetry, I create myself. For me, my poems are a way to me”. Edith SodergranIn grade five I wrote my first poemcalled, “Winter"in a little, red schoolhouseon a little, small deskwith my little, small handThe teacher promised to publish it.I think she...
How often I have heardthat someone has it worse.With eight billion people,this statement is certainly true.Yet this truth denies my truth –that my trauma is real –that my health was endangered –that my sanity was at risk.I grew up with domestic violence.Others have...
Lace curtains, bountiful philodendron, satin table cloth, pepper grinder from Germany, salad served in a crystal stand.Pretense for a tiny townhouse, linoleum floors, rattan sofa, cheap water glasses, washer and dryer in the kitchen.The framing of the shot hides the...
Oh, for lungs to scream a scream that would fully express my grief, that would shake the earth,that would crumble the hillside in front of me. My first memory of daddy-Monster:I am three years old.I receive his fists as I lie in bed.He yells, “It’s your...
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