Once I read the prompt today at OctPoWriMo, I was grateful that we were offered an “out”. We were reminded that we didn’t have to share our poem if we didn’t want to. The prompt asked us to write about the dream(s) of ourselves at eight years old. That was a tough one for me. That age, in particular, was when things really began to go sideways for me. I poured this poem out in one shot and I gave serious consideration to not posting it. Then I remembered a promise I made to myself about three years ago. I promised that I would talk about what happened to me. Silence is part of the problem. So here it is… raw, ugly, and as real as it gets.
I don’t want to write this poem today.
I don’t really have anything to say.
The prompt about our childhood dreams
Reminded me too much,it seems,
The dreams I had at eight or nine
Are dreams that are no longer mine.
My dreams were stolen away from me
By things that I could not foresee.
Child abuse and teenage rape
Imprisoned me beyond escape.
Beneath protective layers of fat
I hid away from life and that
Shut me down for many years
Until I shattered into tears.
I cried and cried and cried for hours
And freed my soul from the evil powers.
The wounds began to heal at last
When I forgave those from my past.
The little girl began to grow
And now, my friends, I finally know
That though I dreamt of life on the stage
My creative life now belongs on the page.