Member Poem

At what point did we stop dreaming the dreams of a child?
When did we start seeing ourselves
as less than what we were?
Like we were the ground People walked on.

I traded my wish of being a super hero for a wish
to be the one who got saved.

I loathed the very thing that fueled my body,
taking only small portions,
pretending I wasn’t already depriving myself
but unable to bear the results.

I tore my skin open like I could rip away the pages
with smudged ink and things erased too many times,
like those pages would turn into wings and fly me away.

I held my heart over fire as if I could burn away all the hate
that grew like a weed inside me.

My words became a hushed prayer, a silent plea,
adding to the quiet abyss that was my cry for help.

My closed mouth became a comfort
that I later despised in an attempt
to open myself up again.

Silence came like fast-spreading fire,
evaporating the ocean of words
everyone else seemed to have.

I retreated into myself like I was leading an army
outnumbered ten to one.

I was ashamed of the way I was raised,
as if it didn’t make me everything I was.

It became easy to disregard my roots
once they were buried (not so deep) down.
It took all my strength not to flinch
when they sprang up again from time to time,
not to reach up and adjust the mask
as if what was underneath
didn’t exist at all.
The remnants of the dirt on my hands
after burying the roots, was like a layer of guilt
that crept up my scarred arms and wrapped
around my neck like a noose,
like a snake,
choking the confidence out of me.

Darkness kept me awake,
my hands gripping the wooden rails
that prevented the fall,
eyes flooding like a dam that had just burst,
breath coming evenly so as not to disturb the ones
who found solace in their dreams.

Where was the hero I traded my dreams for?
I didn’t believe in such a thing as complete darkness.
There was always light somewhere.
But where was it?

I imagined a hero nearby,
waiting to light a candle of hope—
but it wasn’t a hero I needed.

It was the thoughts of a child
scrawled out on the pieces of paper long-discarded,
the thoughts that were formed into the shape
and feel of the hope that filled my pages
with smudged child-like words
written when my heart hadn’t yet been burned.

When my words had yet to be silenced.

When my story wasn’t something
I became ashamed of.

When loving myself wasn’t
something foreign.