Sunday, 11 August 2013
06:39:51 PM (GMT)
a/n: hello all
i'm still writing (thought this one's a little bit different - kinda like a long or
extended poem; thought without rhythmic structure because i do suck at that stuff)
i hope you enjoy (or at least pause to think a little) - that's all i really
ask (but drop my a response if you have thoughts to share)
a little companion piece to a slightly larger project on the go
tw: self harm, alcoholism (mild)
When She Was Five
When she was five, she said,
"Mummy, I want to be an artist."
- “That’s nice dear,” her mother said.
For her birthday she was given a paintbrush,
and didn’t know how to use it
- from red plastic it was made and the bristles always tickled her nose
(“That’s not what you’re supposed to do with it,” her father chided.)
Her father drank copious amounts of tea
- too much, she thought, how can grownups like tea?
She drew a picture with her mother and father holdings hands,
with her in between
- her father pinned it on the kitchen door and showed it to the neighbours when they
popped ‘round for tea and biscuits,
(one day it disappeared, but it was okay because she didn’t know any better).
When she was nine, she said, with youthful determination,
"Mum, I’m gonna be an artist."
- “You can’t make any money out of that,” her mother sighed.
For her birthday she was given an easel,
and felt like a proper painter
- she painted real pictures and gave them to her parents
(“Don’t go encouraging her,” her mother said.)
Her father still drank too much tea
- its herby scent clung to every carpet in the house.
She drew a picture of the conductor from the station,
because he always bobbed his happy head
- her father pinned it on the kitchen door, but her mother took it down
and told her to go play with the other kids,
(who didn’t like her, but it was okay, because she had found her secret place
and they couldn’t catch her there).
When she was thirteen, she said,
"Mum, I want to study as an artist."
- Her mother didn’t say anything, she only shook her head.
For her birthday she was given a calculator,
because she didn’t have a choice anymore
- she painted real pictures and hid them from her parents
(“She needs to study more,” her mother said.)
Her father got antsy when he didn’t take his tea
- he shouted a lot at her mother.
She drew a picture of a boy in her class, who made her laugh,
but only to herself
- but the others stole it from her hands because they thought she fancied him,
(which wasn’t true, but it was okay, because they normally let her be).
When she was sixteen, she said,
"Mum, I’ll be an accountant."
- Her mother smiled, but she was bitter, because it look lies to keep her parents
For her birthday she bought herself a paintbrush,
because her mother kept on shouting
- and her father always counted numbers on his fingers
(“She’s not doing good enough,” her mother said.)
Her father stopped having tea and drank his weight in whiskey
- even when she went to bed at night.
She drew little butterflies upon her wrists, because she knew
her parents couldn’t throw her away
- the others still laughed at her, and her skin wasn’t so tough anymore,
(and it hurt; it wasn’t okay anymore, because she was losing hope).
When she was eighteen, she said,
"I’m trying to become an artist."
- And she didn’t tell her parents, but she did tell him.
For her birthday she was given a promise and a kiss,
and she felt greedy
- because she hadn’t asked for either of those things
(“I love you,” he said.)
She didn’t think much about her father and his tea
- because he was not the only man in her life now.
She drew pictures of that man she loved, but didn’t show them to her parents or her
because she didn’t need the gratification from anyone but him
- he pinned them all around their house and kept saying how proud he was,
(which was okay, becaue he told her that it was).
When she was twenty-one, she said,
"I wanted to be an artist."
- And there was no-one there to tell her otherwise.
For her birthday she was given nothing,
because that’s what she felt inside
- she was lonely and it hurt
(“This is my punishment,” she thought.)
She remembered her father and his tea when she cut damned crevices into her wrists
- in the places where she used to draw the little butterflies.
She scribbles a picture of her gruesome soul, but now there’s no one to say:
silly girl, look at the mess you made
- her blood stains the kitchen door,
(and it doesn’t matter if it’s okay anymore).