Poetry

You slipped the shirt over my head

and stained

with filth

my skin.

Your dirty laundry

tainted my white flowered skirt.

My white laced socks

covered in your dirt.

I bathe in the sun

to cleanse your sin

Until your dirty laundry

Comes round again.

I scrub and I scrub

in the steam I can finally breathe.

You drape me in your rancid towel.

How will I ever become clean.

 

My Easter bonnet

tied under my neck.

I sit on the back church pew.

I listen to the choir

as I bounce my patten leather shoes.

My mother in her flower dress , my father in his suit.

 

I lay in my bed

I can see the cold

blowing through the trees.

I plot my escape from your lies

that keep catching up to me.

I wonder when did it start,

your long list of dirty laundry.

Was it before or after church

on an Easter Sunday.

19 thoughts on “Poetry

  1. Heartbreaking and I love how you express your traumatic experiences in sort of a ‘no big deal’ form’ (although it is a BIG deal)… which I think is something we (as in others who have experienced trauma) see it as such an everyday occurrence as children, we think it’s normal and just mixed in with things other people do, like go to church and tap our shoes. Love to you ❤

    Like

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