“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...
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...
Dear old friend,We have been together for such a long whileThere were times I was consumed by youUnable to breatheGritting and grinding my teethThe weight of the world on my chestCrushing my little one's heartI understand where and why you are so prominent in my...
two sisters, home alonemom working as a teacherdad is a ghost, not aroundmom workingthe fighting, the tearsdad is a ghost, not aroundlocking herself in our mom's roomthe fighting, the tearsno way to call momlocking herself in our mom's roomi am helpless,...
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