the words I sing
the things Dad has always said to me,
“Hush now don’t cry
the hurt will go away.”
Because after Dad found us with the twenty-two dollars
and the backpacks packed
he gave us
a reason to never
try to go down that path
again.
I tried to say no
He’s just a little boy- don’t hurt him now.
I tried to say no
We won’t tell, just let us go, now.
I tried to say no
Don’t touch me, I am stronger now.
I tried to say no
You can’t do this, I am a woman now.
But he didn’t hear me because my voice was
Drowned
Out
By
The
Screams
Coming From My Mouth.
So I’m holding broken Benji now,
cradling broken Benji now
because I did this to him.
I tried to leave.
And that is why some days
I feel like
I.
Am.
Breaking.
80.
“Louisa, you okay?” Margot asks.
She’s still here
next to me
my journals sprawled out on the floor.
I’m shaken to my core
as I remember
the things I’ve pretended
weren’t real
real parts of me
my history
for so long.
“Let’s take a breather, okay? How about we go eat something in the kitchen?”
She stands, offering her hand as I get up.
In the kitchen she makes me
a ham and cheese sandwich
on white bread
opens me a can of Coke
scoops a handful of Cheetos
on my plate.
Confused, I ask, “Where did these come from?”
I point to the plate of contraband according to
Ms. F:
HIGH FRUCTOSE ANYTHING.
ENRICHED FLOUR EVERTHING.
NITRATES. CAFFEINE.
PROCESSED CUISINE.
“I brought it.”
Margot smiles as she takes a swig from her can.
“I can’t live without this stuff. It’s my kryptonite.”
“I didn’t expect that. I mean, Ms. Francine is such…”
“A hippie?” she laughs. “Yeah, my sister is the good one, you know, healthy, eating quinoa and kale. I guess I’m still living like I’m in college.”
“You went to college?” I ask.
“Yeah, I graduated last spring after six long years.”
“Doesn’t it usually take four?”
“Well, for some people, sure. For me…a bit more. After high school I backpacked Europe for a while, then started community college, then decided it wasn’t what I wanted... I bounced between a few places before I settled down with a program I was excited about.”
“And what was that?” I ask, licking my cheesy fingers.
“Creative Writing.”
“So, you’re a writer?” I ask.
“Well, I get paid to manage the record store, but my real passion is poetry. Slam poetry. Have you ever heard of that?”
“No.”
“That’s why I was so moved by your writing, Louisa, it’s so raw–– that’s what slam poets do, we transform words into a living, breathing thing. We share stories through spoken word.”
“So, like, you read it out loud?”
“It is more of a performance, actually. I memorize a piece and then use my voice to interpret the words for the audience.”
“You do that? Get on stage or something in front of people and tell them your secrets?” I ask.
That seems insane.
So foreign.
That isn’t what secrets are for.
Secrets are for burying deep down
never say a sound.
But to speak them?
Share them?
Give them away?
“Here, I’ll show you what I mean.”
Margot slides her laptop
over the kitchen table
and we sit there for the next two hours
watching
YouTube videos
of people just like Margot
sharing their soul
with the world.
81.
“It sounds like you had a nice time with Margot this afternoon.”
Ms. Francine folds laundry on the couch.
I’m waiting for Jess’s mom to come
pick me up
so we can go out
to the mall.
Christmas shopping
and food court.
Dinner
and a movie.
Ms. Francine and Margot had a
hallway conference when she
got home from work.
I’m sure it involved some version
of Margot saying this
poor girl needs to get out of the house.
After my
midmorningmeltdown
and all.
I
the things Dad has always said to me,
“Hush now don’t cry
the hurt will go away.”
Because after Dad found us with the twenty-two dollars
and the backpacks packed
he gave us
a reason to never
try to go down that path
again.
I tried to say no
He’s just a little boy- don’t hurt him now.
I tried to say no
We won’t tell, just let us go, now.
I tried to say no
Don’t touch me, I am stronger now.
I tried to say no
You can’t do this, I am a woman now.
But he didn’t hear me because my voice was
Drowned
Out
By
The
Screams
Coming From My Mouth.
So I’m holding broken Benji now,
cradling broken Benji now
because I did this to him.
I tried to leave.
And that is why some days
I feel like
I.
Am.
Breaking.
80.
“Louisa, you okay?” Margot asks.
She’s still here
next to me
my journals sprawled out on the floor.
I’m shaken to my core
as I remember
the things I’ve pretended
weren’t real
real parts of me
my history
for so long.
“Let’s take a breather, okay? How about we go eat something in the kitchen?”
She stands, offering her hand as I get up.
In the kitchen she makes me
a ham and cheese sandwich
on white bread
opens me a can of Coke
scoops a handful of Cheetos
on my plate.
Confused, I ask, “Where did these come from?”
I point to the plate of contraband according to
Ms. F:
HIGH FRUCTOSE ANYTHING.
ENRICHED FLOUR EVERTHING.
NITRATES. CAFFEINE.
PROCESSED CUISINE.
“I brought it.”
Margot smiles as she takes a swig from her can.
“I can’t live without this stuff. It’s my kryptonite.”
“I didn’t expect that. I mean, Ms. Francine is such…”
“A hippie?” she laughs. “Yeah, my sister is the good one, you know, healthy, eating quinoa and kale. I guess I’m still living like I’m in college.”
“You went to college?” I ask.
“Yeah, I graduated last spring after six long years.”
“Doesn’t it usually take four?”
“Well, for some people, sure. For me…a bit more. After high school I backpacked Europe for a while, then started community college, then decided it wasn’t what I wanted... I bounced between a few places before I settled down with a program I was excited about.”
“And what was that?” I ask, licking my cheesy fingers.
“Creative Writing.”
“So, you’re a writer?” I ask.
“Well, I get paid to manage the record store, but my real passion is poetry. Slam poetry. Have you ever heard of that?”
“No.”
“That’s why I was so moved by your writing, Louisa, it’s so raw–– that’s what slam poets do, we transform words into a living, breathing thing. We share stories through spoken word.”
“So, like, you read it out loud?”
“It is more of a performance, actually. I memorize a piece and then use my voice to interpret the words for the audience.”
“You do that? Get on stage or something in front of people and tell them your secrets?” I ask.
That seems insane.
So foreign.
That isn’t what secrets are for.
Secrets are for burying deep down
never say a sound.
But to speak them?
Share them?
Give them away?
“Here, I’ll show you what I mean.”
Margot slides her laptop
over the kitchen table
and we sit there for the next two hours
watching
YouTube videos
of people just like Margot
sharing their soul
with the world.
81.
“It sounds like you had a nice time with Margot this afternoon.”
Ms. Francine folds laundry on the couch.
I’m waiting for Jess’s mom to come
pick me up
so we can go out
to the mall.
Christmas shopping
and food court.
Dinner
and a movie.
Ms. Francine and Margot had a
hallway conference when she
got home from work.
I’m sure it involved some version
of Margot saying this
poor girl needs to get out of the house.
After my
midmorningmeltdown
and all.
I
Similar Books
