The Kitchen Drawer

When I was in the eighth grade,

you made it quite clear

that I was not YOUR child

when you kicked my mother,

my brother and I

out of the house after an argument.

You broke the drawer off,

the one with knives,

in your fury.

I thought you were going to kill her

right in front of me.

You pinned her to the wall

and spat on her face

as you belittled her

and screamed at her

for some stupid little reason.

You told her to take HER kids

and get out.

I wasn’t even allowed

to get my shoes. Or a coat.

We sat in the car

in the driveway

to a house where I grew up

and cried. And cried.

We did not know where to go.

I told my mother to divorce you.

I told we could move in with grandma.

I told her we could come to get our things

once he was at work tomorrow.

She didn’t listen.

I wish she had

because now I am just as damaged.

You welcomed us back

and acted as though nothing was wrong;

that nothing had happened.

You pretended that everything

was the same as always.

But I know better because

the kitchen drawer doesn’t have a handle

 

 

 

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Light Switches

When I was a little girl,

I used to play with the light switches.

I made it a personal goal

to try to balance a switch right in the middle,

but it was never possible.

It always had to be slightly more up

or slightly more down.

It could never be perfectly evened out.

Yet, I pursued my goal

and constantly tried to correct it.

When the switch would waiver,

I’d try to reposition it.

This led to a lot of ups and downs

and a period of time where

the light would flicker on and off

until I finally would give up

and turn the lights off.

These last few days I have

felt like I am this lightswitch

being played with by a child.

I want neither up nor down.

I want to be centered,

but I have little flickers of

extreme emotions that appear

at a moments notice.

It’s a lot of ups and downs.

Balance is unobtainable.

I’m growing bored from

trying to control my light switch.

I think it’s time to turn out the light,

 

 

 

Where I’m From

I am from Parma,

Right next to Cleveland.

I’m from board games,

Like pretty princess and Candyland.

 

I am from a pink bedroom

In the only yellow house on the street.

I’m from a wooden swing set

That I hang from by my feet.

 

I am from outside adventures

And enjoying the periodic rainfall.

I’m from pumpkin trash bags

That I stuff with leaves in the fall

 

I am from using my stuffed animals

In my room to build a wall.

I’m from organizing Furbies

And cutting hair off my Barbie doll.

 

I am from bologna and mustard

And SpongeBob mac and cheese.

I’m from going to grandma’s house

And asking for blue blueberry muffins, please.

 

I am from Hubba Bubba

And that skittle flavored gum.

I’m from building snowmen

Until my hands go numb.

 

I am from Skip it and Bop-its,

and an endless supply of chalk.

I’m from dress up and costumes,

And practicing my model walk.

 

I am from being the oldest sibling

And at annoying my little brother.

I’m from accidentally hurting him

And hiding from my angry mother.

 

I am from using my imagination

And having fun with what I’ve got.

I’m from fearing the wooden spoon,

Knowing I’d probably get a swat.

 

 

I am from playing on trampolines,

Doing flips and playing popcorn.

I’m from silly jump rope games

and figuring out many babies will be born.

 

I am from going camping,

Eating s’mores and making crafts.

I’m from archery and horse riding,

And floating on the lake in rafts.

 

I am from sleepovers with pizza

At the apartment of my friend.

I’m from hiding from my mom,

When she comes so they never end.

 

I am from riding my purple bike

Up and down the driveway.

I’m from walking home from school

At the end of the school day.

 

I am from swim meets in the summer,

And playing cards between events.

I’m from eating the orange slices

During soccer games from the parents.

 

I am from licking the bowl,

cleaning it of brownie mix.

I’m from my mother’s distress

When I find all the Pixie Stix.

 

I am from a past

That is vivid and 3-D.

I’m from a childhood

That has made me, me.

 

*I wrote this poem for one of my college papers. I hope you enjoyed it ( And I hope I got an A) *