Left alone
to my own devices,
I am left with
reminders of a time
where I was like a babe
in Dickens’ Oliver,
seen and
not heard.
That wilted little wretch
that was too much
of a painful memory
for mother and
a stepfather’s jealousy;
spurning their contempt,
for an indigo child
that didn’t toe
the line.
She dug in her heels,
refusing
to surrender
her heart to a stranger
larger than life
roaming the halls,
casting shadows
wherever he went.
She learned
to survive by making
herself invisible, sobbing
tears into her pillow
in the sanctuary
she cocooned
herself in.
It was here
she found solace
in the darkness
amongst the catacombs
of grey matter,
wandering
the great halls
in search of that
elusive light
that would lead
her back home.
Out of sight and
out of body
while the carnage
spilled into her room
with no windows –
corners,
with no cracks
to crawl inside
to hide.
It was here
she learned to take
refuge,
settling in
amongst the skulls and
crossbones lining
the walls; a mosaic
of Dante’s Iliad
guiding the way.
It was here,
she learned to pray
for forgiveness
to an unknown God
in an unknown time
and place.
*
It was here
she realised her name
was Dib. A reincarnate
of Persephone
and there was no escape
from Death.
11 Typical Unintentional Behaviors of Emotionally Hurt People
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
