I'm Late.

Ok, So.... this post was meant to be posted on Halloween. I forgot, whoops! 


       This is a poem I wrote as a horror-story poem. The man who graded it gave me the most amazing compliment. He told me It was very Sylvia Plath- esque. How did he know the book of  all Sylvia Plath poems is my bible?!


Read More to see the poem:

Nostalgia

Part One 

How do I tell a story that I cannot recollect?

Each unfamiliar face holds a different understanding of

My life.

Who should I trust when I am living under the pretense of how others saw me?

What did I see myself as?

The pieces that I have found tell me one thing; everything was at the fault of vulnerability,

I remember

A mirror and a man.

Two pieces, which until now,  never fit together.

Jigsaw Puzzle-- A Flashback

Part Two

I sat alone at a coffee shop, waiting for something.

What I was waiting for was unclear, but according to the women at work, he had a

“Killer smile”.

He was

Polite,

           Generous,

                           Gorgeous,

                                           Wealthy,

                                                         And interested.

What more could I ask?

Ten months, we were married.

Within twenty, I was

Dead.

I knew there was something wrong,

So I turned my back, closed my eyes.

He became something new to put my heart into, so I

Poured, and poured.

With a wedding ring,

I was caged into a white picket fence.

I stayed sleeping,

Nestled In the suburbs.

With always-sunny

Neighbors.

Utterly and comfortably unaware.

Days morphed to

A haze of lush lawns, shopping carts, and culs-de-sacs

 

I continued to pour,

Fragments of light

Could be an hour or a second.

Did it matter?

 

Then he left,

Leaving nothing behind but a mirror.

The greatest curse of all.

The mirror told me I had nothing,

So that is what I had,

Empty cigarettes and a reflection

Of an even more empty woman. 

I was a shell

Of who I used to be.

A painted on smile.

Blurring into black 

For that, I was

Murdered.

Out of the fear of my condition spilling

Onto utopia,

Housewives attacked.

In my final seconds,

The knife let me see a

Flash

Of a rumpled woman

Handing herself to death.

The mothers were 

too busy to see

Their manicured husbands preparing an

Escape

From the reflections

Holding them down.

All that is left now are

Hallow women haunted by the

House of mirrors distorting their

Souls.