Patchwork Girl (January 28, 2008) Part 2 of 4

Reaching up

I grasp the patchwork doll

Within my hand.

Noticing

For the first time

As I turn it over

Various repair jobs.

From her mom's strong

And confident stitching

To Ellie's loose

And inexperienced stitching.

Tears

Run down my cheeks

Streaks of black mascara

Marring my face

Before landing on the doll.

Remembering

Your final hours

How you needed

Everything to be

Your way.

Your refusal

Of my urgent pleads

To leave the nightclub

Before it's closing.

Only

This once

I wish you

Had listened.

But

As the old saying goes

Hindsight is

Always perfect.

In my mind

Can still picture

The accident.

As if

Shot on an HD camera

In crystal clear detail.

Like

It was yesterday

Not eight years

Of haunted sleep.

Begging

One more song

Ellie you know

I could never turn down

Your puppy dog eyes

Able to melt

The hardest of hearts.

Knew better

To admit defeat

Heading back

To the dance floor.

One song

Turn into another

Before the last song

Was announced.

A quick glance at my cell

Show an hour later

Then I like

But worth

Your blissful look.

Stepping out

The September night air

Slams us

Like a sledgehammer.

Shivering

In our sweaty clothes

As goose bumps

Upon goose bumps

Covered our bodies.

With chattering teeth
I tried to hail a cab.

Why

Did Fate have

To take you

Ellie?

Gladly

I would have

Traded places with you

Just ten paces away

From me.

More

An earwitness

Then an eyewitness

To the accident.

Screeching

Of brakes locking up

Thump of a body

Hitting a car

People screaming.

Driver tries to flee

Your body trapped

Underneath.

Could not look away

As it unfolded

A surrealistic nightmare

Come to life.

Therisa © 2008

Author's note: The second of four part, of a poem taken from my poetic morgue.

You're Not Alone (January 25, 2018)

I write this

As a tribute

And sign of respect.

To all people

Who have come forth

In reporting sexual abuse
And harassment.

However

Long ago

It happened.

Regardless

Of your gender

And sexual orientation.

It's so easy

To blame yourself

As a victim

Of these crimes of power.

There is

No others way

To describe this.

Except

The brutal truth.

I speak this

From my own experience

Of physical mental

And psychological abuse.

As I struggle

With my own sense

Of self-worth

And confidence.

Just the very act

Of coming forward

Is a huge positive step

In your healing process.

Won't lie to you

By saying

It'll disappear

Overnight.

A strong support network

Of friends family

And therapist

Will help.

As a shoulder

Upon which

You can cry on.

And yes

There will be times

That you'll appear

To be regressing.

But

Know this

This is part

Of the healing cycle.

Whether or not

You decide

To file criminal charges

That's a decision

Only you can make.

Either way

You’re not alone

In this journey

Of healing.

Therisa © 2018

Author’s notes: Over the past couple of months, the world has witnessed the emergence of the social phenomena of the #metoo movement, as sexual abuse and harassment survivors are coming forward with their stories, as they reclaim a part of lives. For these men and women, this poem is my way of supporting you. May you find healing and closure for the trauma that you forced to endure at the hands of others. Often, in position of authority over you.   

Riding Out The Storm (January 20, 2018)

On those darkest nights

When my blackest memories

Are the stuff

Horror writers dream of.

The tears flow

Like swollen rivers

From my eyes

Drowning my pillows

In their salty wetness.

As I dream

Of a place

Where I'm free

From these memories

And toxic emotions.

As my strength

Bleeds away

In waves of anxiety

Racking my body

Like the incoming tides

On a seaside beach.

Not even

Hypnos’ gift

Can spare me

From this.

Awakening to

A nervous

And drained body.

Poured

Into a foetal mould

By Hephaestus

Covered in lead.

Knowing

It's another 2-3 days

Before I can leave

This enforced confinement

On my bed.

As I retrace my steps

From this slag heap

That covers my soulscape

In toxic waste.

Hoping

Beyond hope

This will be

My last time.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: On January 19th, I visited my doctor’s office, to get some forms filled out for my disability case file review. It felt like I had triggered a PTSD flashback, in the way that my body has been reacting for the past 3 days.

Moving Beyond Barriers (January 16, 2018)

Can feel it

Coursing through

My body.

Like a nervous energy.

Caustically

It burns my body

With its poisonous touch.

Turning strong muscles

Into piles of rubbery waste

Unable to move.

Battles thought won

Are being fought

Once more

For my mortal soul.

What once was

Taken for granted

And never questioned.

Now

A distant shore

Just beyond

My reach.

Moving steadily downwards

Into the prison cell

My apartment has become.

As anger

And self-hatred flows

Through my body

Like blood.

Dissolving the facade

That the world sees

Upon me.

As the tears flow

Both visible

And invisible

Down my face.

Lingering

Forever

Lingering.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: Just how I'm feeling feeling right now, as I struggle with mental illness.

Untitled (January 17, 2018)

I want to

Let these memories go

Liberating myself

From this haunting darkness

On my soul.

As if

My abusive experience

Are the wrong favour

Of the month.

Just because

I wasn't sexually touched

Or raped

With a penile object

By my abusers.

Although

Numerous times

I have been kicked

Deliberately

In the groin area.

With serious intent

To maim me

In a sexual manner

As they view me

A homosexual male.

Never mind

Some feminists view

My abuse

As a male on male

Crime.

And not

A male on female

Crime.

Thus

They discount me

As another whining male

Seeking attention.

Over battered

And seriously injured women

Attacked by men.

Due to the reality

Of the birth defect

Between my legs

They hold over

All transwomen.

Regardless

Of our status

Pre or post-op.

Bleep you

Too

B*tch.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: Just venting an ugly truth that some people, in the system, don't want to admit its existence.

Cold (January 7, 2018)

Brittle

Fragile life

Breaking

At slightest touch.

Frigid wind blows

Across one's soulscape.

Shivering

Body heat bleeds

Like steam

From boiling kettle.

Frozen corpses

Pale imitation of life.

Stacked

Like woodlot’s

Cords of firewood.

Blithely consumed

By ignorant society.

Waiting next snowfall

To ease

Any collective guilt.

Life spent

So cheaply.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: For much of the past 5 weeks, most of Canada and the United States have been under the grip of an extreme cold air mass. In Toronto, this has resulted in new record lows temperature, for daily highs and overnight lows. As many water mains burst, under the onslaught of these frigid Arctic temperatures.

On a more personal note, this is the first poem that I have written, since November 2017, almost two months ago. As I have past the midway point of the second year for my current bout of depression that started June 2016.