Wounded Hearts (February 5, 2014)

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Are you

So unsure

In your own sexuality

You need to attack others

Who are?

With passing

Or pending legislation

Which reeks

Of "Jim Crow" laws

Against the LGBT+ community.

Bringing back

A dark and disgraceful period

Of American history

Under the fig leaf

Of religious freedom.

Only this time

You can't use

A person's skin colour

As the basis

For your hatred.

No matter

How you try

To justify your actions.

Hate remains hate.

And your actions

Need to be countered

By gestures.

Which builds bridges

Across these emotional divides

Not barbed wire fences

By the fanatics.

Who's hearts

Are harden

Against love

And understanding.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note; Another poem, from my poetic morgue, which sadly, seems more relative today, given the current political climate, in the United States, and parts of western Canada.

Stigma Of Surviving (February 24, 2014)

Silence

The chain

That binds truth

In lies.

Of the horrors

Committed

In the name of love

And punishment.

Twisting the light

Into a dark parody

Where reality loses

All meaning

Except for pain.

Molding one's soul

Like clay

On a potter's wheel

With deft hands.

As the banshee wails

Outside
The bedroom window

Heralding the death

Of another innocent.

Which

No one hears

Or cares

Until too late.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: I'm a survivor of child abuse, by a family member, who was, a child, themselves. The abuse was dismissed, as sibling rivalry, by my parents. In recent years, researchers have come forward, in saying, what was thought, as sibling rivalry, in some case, is really abuse/bullying of one sibling, over the other(s). For many years, in my life, I have experienced suicidal thoughts, low self-esteem, and low self-confidence.

I know, not all of this, is strictly related, to my brother's actions, against me, but also includes the bullying, I had to endure, on and off of the schoolyard, by other children, around my age, starting when I started kindergarten, in 1975. Only, to end, when I transferred to another high school, at the end of grade 10, in 1987. Still, for the next 3 school years, almost constantly depressed, to the point, I was attempting to take my life, by pushing a knife, into my ribcage, hoping to puncture my heart or lungs. Only stopped, due to the lack of arm strength to push the knife, into me. 

Outside Of The Gender Box (March 28, 2017)

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Hamlet Act 1, scene 5, 166-7

In your binary world

There are 

No shades

Of gray.

Everything is:

Yin/Yang

On/off

Black/white

Male/female.

Fitting neatly

Into pigeonholes

Of your mental construct.

Rejecting anything

Outside of these parameters

As blasphemous.

And yet

Life teaches us

Otherwise.

Gender is

Fluid-like

Running across

A spectrum.

In how

We express ourselves.

As male 

Female 

Androgynous

Or somewhere

Inbetween.

Regardless

Of our chromosomes

And hormonal chemistry.

As stated

On a lab report.  

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: On Friday, March 24, 2017, I accidently deleted an almost completed version of this poem, before my appointment with my eye specialist, concerning damage done to my eyes, due to Type II diabetes. At this moment, I don't need corrective glasses, but like life, that may change, when I see her, again, in September.

Over the past 3 days, have reconstructed this poem, from memory. Normally, I write my first draft out in long hand, in one of my notebooks, before transferring it, into one of my email accounts, to get a date stamp, for completion. My handwriting is neat, but very small, to the point, one could say, I'm writing, in code, with it. Especially, as the schools aren't teaching today's' children cursive, but focusing, instead, on typing and printing. 

Guess, one day, it should be, the topic of a poem, by me, with a photo, of my handwriting. 

Grow A Pair (Of Balls) (March 27, 2017)

In the supermarket

I hear you.

A young mother

Threatening
Her three

Or four years old

Son.

Promising him

A reason to cry

If he doesn't stop.

Bringing back

40 year old memories

Of my own experiences

As child.

How boys are
To publically express 

Their emotions.

In being

The strong silent type

When expressing

Sorrow or sadness.

To do otherwise

You're labelled

As a sissy.

Or worse

By society.

Bottling up

The grief.

Leaving it

To eat away 

At you.

Knowing

Had you been born

As female

The rules are

Different.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: After six months of starting estrogen, as part of my HRT, I was asked, what the biggest change, which I have noticed, so far. To which, I answered, being freer, in expressing my emotional self, without the fear of physical or verbal attacks, for doing so. 

Audacity To Dream, Again (March 24, 2017)

At last

An island of wisdom

In a sea of ignorance

Does cradle Washington DC

Today.

As the antithesis forces

Of a nurturing 

And caring nation

Bow their heads

In defeat.

In the withdraw

Of President Trump's

American Health Care Act

From the floor of Congress.

But

How long

Before insanity returns

To haunt us?

In 

A newer

And uglier form

Ever imagine.

For the price

To dream

Is eternal vigilance.

Knowing

Darker days

Are ahead.

Before 

We can awake

From this nightmare.

To begin

The healing.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: On Friday, March 24, 2017, Republican leaders pulled the bill from the House of Representatives, that would have repealed former president Barack Obama's Affordable Care Act, replacing it with American Health Care Act. A bill, many critics have described, as harsh and unjust, in penalizing the poor, the young and elderly, with excessively high premiums, for these groups of people.

A Letter To Whomever (April 5, 2014)

Dear Whomever;

 

What you are

About to read

Isn't a justification

Of my reactions.

 

Rather

The situations

I have faced

During my life.

 

For those

Who don't know me

I was born

Transgendered.

 

A girl trapped

Within a boy's body.

 

Like most trans-people

I knew

At an early age

My body is

Different.

 

The few happy moments

Of my early childhood

Which I can remember.

 

Happened

As a 4

Or 5 years old.

 

Exiting the bathroom

With a towel

Around my armpits

Like mom.

 

Mom dusting me

With her rose scented

Talcum powder

Just like she does

After a bath.

 

Or using the foam

From a scented bubble bath

To give me

A chest like her.

 

Even now

A small smile

Graces my lips

At these memories.

 

Sadly

A hot summer's day

In August 1977

A Sunday

To be exact.

 

When my dreams

Came crashing down

Like a toxic avalanche

Of hate and fear

Upon me.

 

Learning the hard way

"Little boys" shouldn't be

Wonder Woman

While playing superheroes.

 

Pedaling away
In abject fear

As fast as

My little legs could

Back home.

Vowing

Never again

Shall I let her out

Into the light.

 

For the danger

Is too great

If I want to survive.

 

As the verbal

And physical blows

Rained down

Upon my body and soul

Like an unrelenting hailstorm.

 

Sinking

Ever deeper

Into Hell.

 

Keeping quiet

For 28 years

While Death appeared

The perfect solution

For my pain.

 

Until November 15, 2005

When the shackles

Fell from my body

At dad's graveside.

 

Relearning a truth

I had buried

So deep

Within my soul.

 

I am

A woman.

 

As the tears flow

Slowly eroding

The decades of self-hate

I had bottled up.

 

Must admit

This treacherous road

Which I travel upon

Is filled with many sorrows

And joys.

 

Able to break

A lesser heart

Than mine.

 

When rejected

By love ones

Who should be

Supporting you

During a trial

Like this.

 

But the truth has 

Never been

An easy mistress

To truly embrace

At any time.

 

As the past 9 years

Have proven to me

Forced to relearn

What true friendship is.

 

As the little girl

Is released

From her decades-long

Imprisonment

And into the light

To play.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: Another poem taken, from my poetic vault, previously unposted poem, to any site. Occasionally, I will write a letter, in the form of a poem, to express thoughts or ideas that tradition forms limit me, from doing.

Depression (January 16, 2014)

Sigh.

 

A dense mental fog

Swirls before my mind

Embracing me

Within its pea soup consistency.

 

Dulling everything

Around me.

 

Draining life's

Rich palette of colours

That were once

Bright and vibrant.

 

Turning my world

Into a monotone orb

Of grayness.

 

Wanting to scream out

In angry protest

But nothing emergences

From my lips.

 

Except

A feeble cough

Or two.

 

Sinking

Ever further

Into the darker depth

Of myself.

 

Where sleep becomes

A weapon to use

Against me

By you.

 

As you play

With my emotions

Like a skilled concert pianist does

With a Mozart concerto

Before an enraptured audience.

 

Knowing

The crescendo is

Still to come

Before your departure date

Arrivals.

Therisa © 2014

Author's note: Another poem taken, from my poetic vault, which deals with my constant battle with depression, and its influence over me.

Betrayal (March 20, 2017)

Broken faith

Endless tears

Tortured love

Ruined dreams

Awash with guilt

Years lost

Anger internalized

Longing for death.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: A writing exercise, to see, if I write each line of verse, in this acrostic, with two words, and still make sense when read. 

An Ending (August 8, 2013)

Never

Sexually assaulted

By you.

But

Your actions
Raped my mind
And soul.

In destroying
A child

Filled with hope

And Dreams.

As my tears

Forms a noose

Around my neck.

Each new tear

Adds an additional loop

Until thirteen is reach

And tightened.

As the trap door

Opens.

Therisa © 2013

Author's note: Originally posted, on a peer support PTSD site, as part of my trauma diary, here. This poem deals, with the summer of 1985, and the violence that I experienced, at the hands of my younger brother, and I feel towards myself, about it.

Running To Nowhere (July 29, 2013)

Can feel

Your slow ascent

Upon my defenses.

Poking and probing

For any opening

Which your talons

Can rip my soul

Apart.

Fighting against

My impulse to flee

To anywhere

But here.

As I hear

The panting of

Your hounds pursuing

As they lunge

And nip my heels.

Tripping me

As my feet stumble

Over each other.

Wiping

My bloody hands off

On my shredded jeans.

Knowing

It means death

To stop

And surrender.

Even if

I run out of space

Which I can tread.

Therisa © 2013

Author's note: Originally posted, on a peer support PTSD site, as part of my trauma diary, there.

Releasing Dark Fears (March 17, 2017)

Out of sync

Body dysfunctional

With reality.

As if

I don't belong

Here.

Like an Internet troll

Who's pretending

To be

Someone else.

Scared

Someone will call me

An imposture

Or worse.

Telling me

My experiences

Of abuse and hate

Are imaginary.

From the pages

Of a horror story

One can buy

On-line.

Tossed away

When done.

Found unbelievable

Even for

Fiction.

Into the delete bin

Of your computer

Or smartphone.

     *   *   *

You call me

Justifiably paranoid.

Never once

Did you acknowledge

My attempts

To share my past.

Rather

You sought

To exercise 

Your fear.

Repeatedly

Asking the same question

Session 

After session.

As if

You don't believe

My answers.

If you're trying

To anger me

It won't work.

Given

My high threshold

Before I will react

To you.

And yes

I do know

You're transphobic

By the manner

You interact

With me.

As witnessed

By my housing worker

During our last session

Together.

Handing over

The psychological assessment

For my application

To Ontario Disability Support Program.

An assessment

With many glaring errors

By you.

     *   *   *

So

Tell me

Doc.

Are all abuse survivors

Justifiably paranoid

By our inability

To make direct eye contact?

In blaming ourselves

For the actions

Of others?

In the destruction

Of our innocence.

Internalization

Of our abusers' words

By our inner voice

That repeatedly call us

Rude and shameful names.

Like a record

That's constantly 

Skipping?

Or

The anxiety/panic attacks

We experience

In crowded situations

Due to past abuse/bullying.

In which

The crowds

Re-enforces

These abusive actions.

Catching us

In an endless loop

On our personal PVR

Available on demand

24/7.

A struggle

That often ends

In a graveside service.

As the private

Become public.

For those

Who surrender

To the pain.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: On Wednesday, March 15, 2017, I had an appointment, with my therapist, and the above poems, are some of the topics that we talked about, during that session. Before anyone thinks, it was all grim, I had the therapist laughing, at my puns, play on words, and one-liners. 

Like many of my therapy poems, I need to explore my feeling, in a manner, I couldn't or didn't have the time, in the session, last Wednesday. And yes, there were several times, I found myself, on the edge of outright crying, as I opened up, about this part of my life.

Summer's Last Hurrah (March 14, 2017)

Couristy: Tourism Toronto

Memories

Tasting bitter-sweet

Like sips of lemonade

Freshly squeezed.

As days

Grow shorter

And nights

Longer.

We walk pass

The turnstile

Our ride tickets

In hand.

To the midway

We ran

Like Usain Bolt

In the 100 m race

At the Olympics.

Calling dibs

On which rides

We wanted.

Only stopping

For bathroom breaks.

As we nibbled on

Candy apples

And multi-coloured 

Cotton candy.

Overhead

The sky thundered

With the sounds of jets

From the airshow.

Temporarily

Forgetting the rides.

Our eyes scanned

The horizon

Like radar installation

Searching for 

Another jet flyby.

Watching

RCAF Snowbirds

And USN Blue Angels

Performed death-defying

Aerobatic flight formations.

As time 

Lost meaning

'Til last jet contrail

Disappeared

Over Lake Ontario.

Ride tickets

Gone.

We search out

The various buildings

And their exhibits.

We could taste

The world

In the Food Pavilion

North American style.

If you wanted

A limited menu

From selected countries

To satisfy 

Your foodie needs.

The agricultural building

Proudly displayed

Award winning animals

Raised by 4-H members

With their ribbons.

Day grows short

And us

Cranky and tired.

One last tour

Of the carny booths.

The barkers try

To entice us

With their games 

Of skill and chance.

Hoping for

An easy mark

As they offer

Large stuff animals

To the winners.

But

We walk by

Heading towards

The Go trains

For home.

Tomorrow

School begins

Anew.

Therisa © 2017

Author's note: Been about 30 years, since I last been to a fair, in the Canadian National Exhibition (locally called, the X), in Toronto, with my family, on a Labour Day long weekend, as my dad wanted to see the air show, as he served in the RCAF, during the 1950's and 1960's, before he left. The X runs, for the last 17 days, of the summer. before the new school year begins, on the first Tuesday, of September, after Labour Day.