deepundergroundpoetry.com
Dishes Lying Witness in the Sink
the day you ruined me
sitting at our kitchen table
telling you about the boy
who hurt me at school,
pinching and twisting my nipple
through my shirt
...he told me I’d be cute
if I wasn’t so fat
I was alone
waiting for the bell
feeling clumsy and exposed
surrendering to the internal chaos
of rapid-fire thoughts
finding my way to the inside
as I’ve always tended to do
the colors and shapes
homemade hallucinations
eidetic daydreams
distracting me
from this inevitable moment
standing in the hall
trapped outside my locker
in the hell between classes
body rigid
my breath shoving way
through too-tight lungs
eyes down to avoid collision
with anyone immune
to my force-willed invisibility
the halls a tangled jungle
full of Darwin’s theory in action
and I know
I am far from the fittest
you said I deserved it
for not paying attention
and for the way I stood,
chest out and face proud
batting my eyelashes for boys
with my breasts on display
it was attention I was after
and it was attention that I got
your words exhaled on hot breath
from thin, bitter lips
are you proud of yourself now?
dripped from the crown of my head
running down my face
in a thick coat of shame
my constant companion
you don’t have to worry, though
I haven’t had a proud moment
since that one
you fixed me right up
I told you I didn’t understand
why he’d say such a mean thing
I was just a normal girl
with a normal body
I was born on a rainbow
and hit the spectrum with a slap
but I never caused him any pain
and it seemed unfair
to my eighth grade view
of justice
because it’s true, that’s why
his words continue to sting my skin
because after all these years,
I still don’t know if he was right
you swept your arm
across the table
clearing it in your anger
at my audacity
to refer to myself
as a normal anything
and you began to speak
five inches from my face,
your morning coffee
mixed with the smell
of loathing
on your breath
I blinked
and an hour had passed
while you spit venom
and slapped my face
when my eyes glazed over
in my desperation
to escape to somewhere else
anywhere else
and you shouted words
my broken memory
has graciously never given
me permission to recall
for that I suppose
I should be grateful
it took me a lot of years
to realize what was lost
from me that day
as I sat in therapy
nervously tapping my feet
snacking on my bottom lip
a stolen throw pillow
from the sleek leather couch
squeezed tightly to shield myself
(my heart)
from her prying questions
and painful demands
point to the picture
that looks most like your body
her voice is too quiet
and full of what feels like pity
the sound making me furious
I don’t want to play this game
but I couldn’t find the right one
because I don’t know
what I look like
because I can’t see
my image in my own mind
because I can’t imagine
that I still exist
your rage finally spent
you turned back to your dishes
lying witness in the sink
humming a tune that I’m sure
was approved by the elders
double-stamped
by the great Reverend James
lounging on the couch
twelve feet away
I take thousands of photos
the Selfie Queen!
you still live to spit at me,
but I wonder if you know
that it doesn’t matter
how many photos I take
I don’t recognize the face
returning my gaze
not since the day you ruined me
sitting at our kitchen table
sitting at our kitchen table
telling you about the boy
who hurt me at school,
pinching and twisting my nipple
through my shirt
...he told me I’d be cute
if I wasn’t so fat
I was alone
waiting for the bell
feeling clumsy and exposed
surrendering to the internal chaos
of rapid-fire thoughts
finding my way to the inside
as I’ve always tended to do
the colors and shapes
homemade hallucinations
eidetic daydreams
distracting me
from this inevitable moment
standing in the hall
trapped outside my locker
in the hell between classes
body rigid
my breath shoving way
through too-tight lungs
eyes down to avoid collision
with anyone immune
to my force-willed invisibility
the halls a tangled jungle
full of Darwin’s theory in action
and I know
I am far from the fittest
you said I deserved it
for not paying attention
and for the way I stood,
chest out and face proud
batting my eyelashes for boys
with my breasts on display
it was attention I was after
and it was attention that I got
your words exhaled on hot breath
from thin, bitter lips
are you proud of yourself now?
dripped from the crown of my head
running down my face
in a thick coat of shame
my constant companion
you don’t have to worry, though
I haven’t had a proud moment
since that one
you fixed me right up
I told you I didn’t understand
why he’d say such a mean thing
I was just a normal girl
with a normal body
I was born on a rainbow
and hit the spectrum with a slap
but I never caused him any pain
and it seemed unfair
to my eighth grade view
of justice
because it’s true, that’s why
his words continue to sting my skin
because after all these years,
I still don’t know if he was right
you swept your arm
across the table
clearing it in your anger
at my audacity
to refer to myself
as a normal anything
and you began to speak
five inches from my face,
your morning coffee
mixed with the smell
of loathing
on your breath
I blinked
and an hour had passed
while you spit venom
and slapped my face
when my eyes glazed over
in my desperation
to escape to somewhere else
anywhere else
and you shouted words
my broken memory
has graciously never given
me permission to recall
for that I suppose
I should be grateful
it took me a lot of years
to realize what was lost
from me that day
as I sat in therapy
nervously tapping my feet
snacking on my bottom lip
a stolen throw pillow
from the sleek leather couch
squeezed tightly to shield myself
(my heart)
from her prying questions
and painful demands
point to the picture
that looks most like your body
her voice is too quiet
and full of what feels like pity
the sound making me furious
I don’t want to play this game
but I couldn’t find the right one
because I don’t know
what I look like
because I can’t see
my image in my own mind
because I can’t imagine
that I still exist
your rage finally spent
you turned back to your dishes
lying witness in the sink
humming a tune that I’m sure
was approved by the elders
double-stamped
by the great Reverend James
lounging on the couch
twelve feet away
I take thousands of photos
the Selfie Queen!
you still live to spit at me,
but I wonder if you know
that it doesn’t matter
how many photos I take
I don’t recognize the face
returning my gaze
not since the day you ruined me
sitting at our kitchen table
Published 7th Mar 2020
Author's Note
The path to healthy is painful.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 9
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comments 13
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The author encourages honest critique.
7th Mar 2020 10:35am
This was pretty painful to read, but I couldn't stop reading ether. Powerful poem.
7th Mar 2020 2:27pm
7th Mar 2020 3:01pm
Beautiful confessional poetry, Luna.
Please don't ever allow anyone's opinion of you define who you are. When someone belittles you, it really isn't a reflection of you, but them. If it's anything I have learned in this lifetime, it's that
Please don't ever allow anyone's opinion of you define who you are. When someone belittles you, it really isn't a reflection of you, but them. If it's anything I have learned in this lifetime, it's that
7th Mar 2020 3:09pm
Thank you, Ahavati. It’s hard to silence those old tapes given to us in childhood. They tend to play on an automatic loop. Spilling it helps.
7th Mar 2020 3:20pm
It really, really helps if you can listen to the words as the pain coming from within them—and only toward you. . .you, without knowledge, obviously triggered something deep within them that they would've rather not remembered too.
It's a shame that you could not have sat across that table and shared your pain; however, some are simply not capable of dealing with it, so project it toward who triggered it. This release of anger assuages the pressure. . .
It's a shame that you could not have sat across that table and shared your pain; however, some are simply not capable of dealing with it, so project it toward who triggered it. This release of anger assuages the pressure. . .
7th Mar 2020 3:42pm
7th Mar 2020 3:48pm
7th Mar 2020 11:04pm
Very powerful ink. I hope you continue to spill in catharsis like this, until the painful parts become a mere reflection of the one who was too broken to do better. Hugs and much respect for the journey. 💜, R.
7th Mar 2020 11:26pm
8th Mar 2020 3:06am
Dear L,
Riveting and such an anguished feeling my stomach is in a knot. What’s that boy’s name? I will take care of that putz once and for all. This was a triple betrayal. Your young mind dealing with burgeoning hormones, that ill-bred pig of a young boy and the antagonist in this piece who should have defended you against this violation.
This work was incredible to process and for all its pain what made it okay was knowing there was an inner strength you were blessed with, knowing somewhere deep down you were okay. You were/are better than okay. You and only you summoned up the courage to seek the means to stop the madness and show the world how fan-freaking-tastic you are! This is a powerful piece that will help many of us. This is superhuman strength to share thank you. H🌷
Riveting and such an anguished feeling my stomach is in a knot. What’s that boy’s name? I will take care of that putz once and for all. This was a triple betrayal. Your young mind dealing with burgeoning hormones, that ill-bred pig of a young boy and the antagonist in this piece who should have defended you against this violation.
This work was incredible to process and for all its pain what made it okay was knowing there was an inner strength you were blessed with, knowing somewhere deep down you were okay. You were/are better than okay. You and only you summoned up the courage to seek the means to stop the madness and show the world how fan-freaking-tastic you are! This is a powerful piece that will help many of us. This is superhuman strength to share thank you. H🌷
9th Mar 2020 2:25pm
It is an honor to know that your words resonate. I’ve met enough people in therapy to know that my memory of pain is not really unique; the cycles of trauma we visit from one generation to the next is such a heavy burden to place on young shoulders. For me, this catharsis is about identifying the moment that damage is done, and setting it free. Thank you so much for seeing that strength does come from healing 💜💜💜.
8th Mar 2020 5:36pm
The devil is in the details. The details here, the haptics in particular, and the clarity and sensitivity of your voice, are heart rending. This was an amazing write, its proportion, beautifully rendered snapshot scenes of your life, weaving together this tale of pathos. Love the way you envelope the poem with the opening and closing lines. 💖
9th Mar 2020 2:26pm
The details are the things that stick, rather vividly at times, to these moments. Thank you so much, Daniel 💜.
