deepundergroundpoetry.com
Flowers in the (Attic) Basement
Inside of her womb, in her make-shift leech jar she sits and plays her only salvation. She talks to the imaginary friends that like to come for tea, and then she sits and tries to write poetry avoiding her parents as best as she can. Her father who screams at her to be normal and her mother who pays no mind to her at all, the one friend she has (except for the imaginary ones) is her brother. He protects her and takes care of her as best as he can, and she loves him for this. She is cursed and plagued with the disease on Manic Depression, trapped inside of her antisocial mind she is left alone to fight the demons, her only salavation left for her be her violin which she holds with pride. She plays late at night and early in the morning, driving her parents crazy even though she inherited this dreaded illness of not sleeping a full night from them, damn the insomnia that comes from the mania of this disorder. She begins writing poetry and that is how we began to speak, talking through the computer, through letters and messages on the screen.
"Don't call me a monster"
She says this when she exposes a huge secret to me, something on a topic most would consider controversial. Some would consider the way she lives her life unusual but her life is so hard as I read the poems she rights about being outcasted, and wanting to be noticed--especially by her father, something that I can also understand. The love for her brother one of the only things keeping her going. Her father taking her prized possession, her beloved violin-- screaming at her to be normal and then smashing the electric instrument over his daughter's frame, shattering it into a million pieces and making her wish that she was more breakable than her beloved musical friend. She wants to die, feeling sick that one of the most precious things to her was broken by being smashed against her own body. She didn't mind the bruises (she's use to them by now), she didn't care much for the blood in her hair (though she admitted it was gross), she was back inside of the womb of her basement typing her life into the form of poetry and then talking to me through messages.
"When a sane girl pretends, she is mad. But when a mad girl pretends what is she?"
The random riddle confused and startled me when I first started speaking to my new friend, just as obsessed with the Victorian Era and the red haired manic depressive rockstar, Emilie Autumn Liddell. Understanding how it feels to not want to get out of bed somedays, while other days you may be considered the most annoying person in the world. She understood the contrast between mania and depression, she understood the feeling of wanting to snap someone's neck because their voices annoyed you so much right now and you just wanted to be left alone.
"Hope is to a insane girl what dust is to a sane one. . . Useless."
Another random quote as she rants about how she has dropped a tea cup and how easily they break, it takes quite sometime later before she acutally picks up this fallen tea vessal. In the meantime I am amused by her humor, her dry sarcasm that makes me laugh because it's the bittersweet truth, it's the cynide spiked tea, smashed on your victorian wallpaper.
"How did it happen? If you don't mind me asking?"
"No not at all. Well it started when I was fourteen, he was seventeen. I was trying on my first corset, I needed help, he tied it but told me I was 'beautiful', he kissed my shoulder in a promise that he'd always keep me safe from danger, I blushed. After a few weeks, of being plagued by odd dreams and thoughts and fantasies and feelings that one would get to a crush, while no one was home, we were yelling and then I just kissed him. He kissed me back. We didn't talk about it. Then he came home after a brutal moment with our 'father', he was bloody and bit, I helped him. I kissed him on the lips and he kissed back. A few days after... Things just happened. We just fell in love. Like you would with your girlfriend."
"That's adorable."
I couldn't help but be captivated by the cute love story, no matter what other people may say, I myself never associated love with this topic before. I don't think anyone has, I also associated it with being weird or creepy, I never associated it with being love-- But it is, she is in love with him.
"The poem is called 'Dearest Thomas ( Acacia Greggii )" Acacia Greggii means 'secret love'. As for 'Dearest Thomas'. Well-- Thomas meaning Thomas, my brother. Please do NOT tell me that it is wrong and that... And that I am a monster. Great now the overactive waterworks are going again. I'm deeply sorry for this. "
There is no life lesson that can prepare someone for befriending someone and then finding out that they are in love with her brother, that her first time was with her brother (because I do not count her being molested as anything special, more like horrible considering that's her earliest memory). I was not grossed out, and I can honestly say that it didn't (and still doesn't) bother me. I mean, if she's happy and she loves him and he loves her than why should it matter? I am in love with a girl, maybe not related to me but it's not the normal thing, a woman is suppose to love a man-- And family members aren't suppose to take part in incest. But still who has ever thought of incest relating to someone being in love? I know that I never did, I thought about inbreds and people in small towns where their weren't alot of people. And I feel like a hypocrite because how many lesbians have been referred to as dykes or butches because if you like girl it means you have really short hair and dress like a guy. I did not judge my new friend, I accepted it and later defended the topic, I have learned to keep my mind wide open-- This girl has been diagnosed with a disorder that has outcasted her from her family, and other kids her age. She lives inside the womb of her house, the basement reading her books, drinking her tea and (before the sudden death of her violin) playing music.
She has just messaged me, her and Thomas are planning to leave her house, get faraway from their parents-- I tell her that I wish for everything to work out. I tell her that I am happy for her, because I am. This girl is my friend and to see the darkened world unfold before my eyes that is her life makes me more sick than knowing she's in love with her brother. I rather know that she is in love with her brother than know that her earliest memory is being molested by her father's friend in the bathroom of the place her father worked. I rather know that she suffers from manic depression than to know that she was molested in mental hospital about a year ago-- a place that is designed to help but obviously proves the Wayward Victorian Girl way true and that their is no help for the manically depressed, their is no help for the suicidal girl. Their is nothing but darkness, unless you become that light and you reach out to each other and help one another. We are not alone, and that is why I am glad to have made her as a friend, she understands and I understand her-- I do not judge her and I do not care much about the choices she has made in living her life. She is interesting person who has a hard and difficult life, and I am more than happy to welcome her into mine as my friend.
Inside of her womb, in her make-shift leech jar she sits and plays her only salvation.
"Don't call me a monster"
She says this when she exposes a huge secret to me, something on a topic most would consider controversial. Some would consider the way she lives her life unusual but her life is so hard as I read the poems she rights about being outcasted, and wanting to be noticed--especially by her father, something that I can also understand. The love for her brother one of the only things keeping her going. Her father taking her prized possession, her beloved violin-- screaming at her to be normal and then smashing the electric instrument over his daughter's frame, shattering it into a million pieces and making her wish that she was more breakable than her beloved musical friend. She wants to die, feeling sick that one of the most precious things to her was broken by being smashed against her own body. She didn't mind the bruises (she's use to them by now), she didn't care much for the blood in her hair (though she admitted it was gross), she was back inside of the womb of her basement typing her life into the form of poetry and then talking to me through messages.
"When a sane girl pretends, she is mad. But when a mad girl pretends what is she?"
The random riddle confused and startled me when I first started speaking to my new friend, just as obsessed with the Victorian Era and the red haired manic depressive rockstar, Emilie Autumn Liddell. Understanding how it feels to not want to get out of bed somedays, while other days you may be considered the most annoying person in the world. She understood the contrast between mania and depression, she understood the feeling of wanting to snap someone's neck because their voices annoyed you so much right now and you just wanted to be left alone.
"Hope is to a insane girl what dust is to a sane one. . . Useless."
Another random quote as she rants about how she has dropped a tea cup and how easily they break, it takes quite sometime later before she acutally picks up this fallen tea vessal. In the meantime I am amused by her humor, her dry sarcasm that makes me laugh because it's the bittersweet truth, it's the cynide spiked tea, smashed on your victorian wallpaper.
"How did it happen? If you don't mind me asking?"
"No not at all. Well it started when I was fourteen, he was seventeen. I was trying on my first corset, I needed help, he tied it but told me I was 'beautiful', he kissed my shoulder in a promise that he'd always keep me safe from danger, I blushed. After a few weeks, of being plagued by odd dreams and thoughts and fantasies and feelings that one would get to a crush, while no one was home, we were yelling and then I just kissed him. He kissed me back. We didn't talk about it. Then he came home after a brutal moment with our 'father', he was bloody and bit, I helped him. I kissed him on the lips and he kissed back. A few days after... Things just happened. We just fell in love. Like you would with your girlfriend."
"That's adorable."
I couldn't help but be captivated by the cute love story, no matter what other people may say, I myself never associated love with this topic before. I don't think anyone has, I also associated it with being weird or creepy, I never associated it with being love-- But it is, she is in love with him.
"The poem is called 'Dearest Thomas ( Acacia Greggii )" Acacia Greggii means 'secret love'. As for 'Dearest Thomas'. Well-- Thomas meaning Thomas, my brother. Please do NOT tell me that it is wrong and that... And that I am a monster. Great now the overactive waterworks are going again. I'm deeply sorry for this. "
There is no life lesson that can prepare someone for befriending someone and then finding out that they are in love with her brother, that her first time was with her brother (because I do not count her being molested as anything special, more like horrible considering that's her earliest memory). I was not grossed out, and I can honestly say that it didn't (and still doesn't) bother me. I mean, if she's happy and she loves him and he loves her than why should it matter? I am in love with a girl, maybe not related to me but it's not the normal thing, a woman is suppose to love a man-- And family members aren't suppose to take part in incest. But still who has ever thought of incest relating to someone being in love? I know that I never did, I thought about inbreds and people in small towns where their weren't alot of people. And I feel like a hypocrite because how many lesbians have been referred to as dykes or butches because if you like girl it means you have really short hair and dress like a guy. I did not judge my new friend, I accepted it and later defended the topic, I have learned to keep my mind wide open-- This girl has been diagnosed with a disorder that has outcasted her from her family, and other kids her age. She lives inside the womb of her house, the basement reading her books, drinking her tea and (before the sudden death of her violin) playing music.
She has just messaged me, her and Thomas are planning to leave her house, get faraway from their parents-- I tell her that I wish for everything to work out. I tell her that I am happy for her, because I am. This girl is my friend and to see the darkened world unfold before my eyes that is her life makes me more sick than knowing she's in love with her brother. I rather know that she is in love with her brother than know that her earliest memory is being molested by her father's friend in the bathroom of the place her father worked. I rather know that she suffers from manic depression than to know that she was molested in mental hospital about a year ago-- a place that is designed to help but obviously proves the Wayward Victorian Girl way true and that their is no help for the manically depressed, their is no help for the suicidal girl. Their is nothing but darkness, unless you become that light and you reach out to each other and help one another. We are not alone, and that is why I am glad to have made her as a friend, she understands and I understand her-- I do not judge her and I do not care much about the choices she has made in living her life. She is interesting person who has a hard and difficult life, and I am more than happy to welcome her into mine as my friend.
Inside of her womb, in her make-shift leech jar she sits and plays her only salvation.
Published 13th Sep 2011
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17th Sep 2011 7:42am
I am both touched and moved by this piece. Although somewhat shocked at the words themselves that I have read I am neither disgusted or off put but I have great admiration and respect for you both for writing about this and for what you have said about yourself and your friend. I think it was beautifully written. It gave me insight to your friend's life and leaves me feeling empatheic in a most honourable way. If that makes sense? I think I may keep an eye on you just in a poetic sense, it's not everyday I read something quite like this so thank you, that was definitly worth the read!
