Poem: Composition Book

My mother threw out my poetry
when I was fifteen,
just like that,
no apologies

She made sure
that the trash truck
ground-up all my emotions
in all those lined pages
of a marble composition notebook.

She wanted to prevent me
from writing down
all my romantic notions
and teenage secrets.

She believed nothing good
could come of telling the truth,
and that expressing pain
and vulnerability
were dangerous.

It’s better to contain
misery and disdain
in private, she said.
Then you won’t get hurt.

That was when I lived at home,
now I don’t have to suppress
what I feel anymore
or be so overly protected.

I’m free to fill up as many
marble bound notebooks
with poems of blood and tears
without being taken
from a mother in fear.


Flash Fiction Link: Internal Voices

I was unable to run to the door or reach for the wall phone. I tried to talk Huey down as best as I could while preparing to roll up into a ball. Too big to handle alone, there was no other choice but to go into defensive mode until help arrived.

Excerpt from Internal Voices at Friday Flash Fiction.