Carnivore

storytime! :)

The truth is I often wonder how insanely self-obsessed one needs to be in order to write poetry 
and how can one even justify the writing 
with what is going on right now.  

The truth is all of this is unoriginal anyway. The inside of my head is monotonous, dreary carnage - 
bloodthirsty thoughts chewing up the grey matter, 
a woman with anxiety? How goddamn 
predictable!
The truth is I have spent twenty five years preparing myself for the worst things possible: death, misery, sickness, a home on fire (we all burn inside) - 
the usual fears -
surely -
you know -
what I mean?
The truth is I would not - could not - sleep as a child in case a tsunami/gas leak/man with a knife/earthquake/tyrannosaurus rex
came for my loved ones in the false security of the dark - 
haven’t you heard -
of the family that perished, one balmy, moonless night -
because no one thought to stay alert -
to the carnivore creeping up the stairs?

The truth is, I was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, fighting for a gulp of air, and now I suspect my brain makes me dream about all my teeth falling out, addicted to the relief of gasping awake.

The truth is my great-grandparents once buried themselves under shrubbery amongst the bears and wolves 
Lay still, lay silent, a hand cupping a sleeping baby’s head 
willing his silence as soldiers trampled the mountains, searching for the whites of eyes. 
The truth is that military police once ricocheted around a small city 
arresting young men and sending them to front lines with army handbooks in their pockets. And so my father left. And then they shut the borders.

The truth is when my grandmother was a child she was given away, and her twin brother wasn’t. 
His name? Who could possibly know?
It seems like everyone in that bloodline died in confusing and appalling ways
and she never talked about it - in fact she laughed loudly and all the time,
even as she refused to leave the house.
The truth is, a stranger once trapped me behind a bar and told me he would kill me. 
And now I’m scared of flying. 
The truth is, I feel calmest when I watch the sun come up. 
The truth is, I like to keep a sharp grip. 
The truth is my sister once darted into the paths of oncoming cars, nine years young, 
and I went tearing after her, scratching up my throat with the vowels of her name - 
at least, that’s what they tell me.
I don’t remember!
I don’t remember!
But I do remember how,
at school
the teachers let us ring the bell at lunch, end of playtime, and how, once, when they chose me,
I rang that bell with the full force of a child’s frantic body, felt the agony racing up my shoulder - but reader, you already know I did not stop.  
I have always been good 
at hurting myself 
in order to sound the alarm.

A quick favour. I love writing these posts, and I intend to do them for free for as long as I can. If you enjoyed reading this, forward it to a friend (or three) who you think might like it too. It helps massively, because validation from strangers is truly the only thing that makes the horrors bearable for me.

PS: If you spotted a typo, no you didn’t.