When The Canvas Speaks

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
Old poem of a childhood that barely existed, except through bruises and taught self-hatred.

Writing helps me outgrow it all, though. Shedding my skin, and aching for sunlight to get in.
I want to plant gardens within myself again.

Submitted: September 28, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 28, 2018



The only knowledge I gained from my parents...
 Was not the typical:
"2 + 2 = 4", how to spell my name, 
who Robinhood was.

Never did I ever have my mother read me a bedtime story. 
Nor preach to me how important it was to love myself, 

Instead, they taught me:
how "good enough" I will never be;
that no one will like me.
I'll have no friends.
I do not deserve love, 
But instead, 
I deserve to be alone. 
Alone, alone. 

Remnants of what was never is with me. 
I had no happy times, I had no support,
no role models, 
no good memories.
This darkness is consuming me.

The only time my Mommy played with my hair is when she would drag me across the room by it, 
The hues and colors they'd place upon my skin.
It was like their "delicate" fingertips were the paintbrushes, 
And I was the empty, 
Oh ever so empty canvas. 

They were just trying to make a masterpiece of me. 
Bruises are artwork, too. 


© Copyright 2019 Bambi Jaye. All rights reserved.

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