The Other Sister

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We were supposed to meet in the January

Of a million miles ago,
I still sneeze sometimes from the cold I caught
As I waited for you in the snow.
They gave no name to your faceless face
Just an unformed hand to hold,
I held that hand and I always will
Even when I'm grey and old.
Is it wrong to love until it hurts,
To love the unhuman form?
Is it wrong to miss what I never had,
Something that was never born?
I can't deny your brief existence
Although they say I should forget,
A million miles on I still say goodnight
To the little soul I never met.

Pandora's Bag

The handle snapped on my trusty bag
A million miles ago
When I squashed down my heart
And squashed down my soul
Hoping in vain it would make me whole
If I made room for theirs instead.

So I turned the bag on its head
And watched the hearts and souls fall
Thought about it, thought about it a lot
And I left them in the road to rot
My bag is lighter now
But the load I carry is not.



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The Library

This was for the "One Minute Writer" challenge. http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/

My hands are young, so young that there are tiny dimples where knuckles should be. With these hands I caress the cover of a book that looks important, like something that my mother would read. I love my mother. She's the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I think she was a princess before she met my father and had me. With every touch of this book I feel more like my mother. I'm strong, I'm beautiful and most of all I am a grown up.
I look for her, scanning the room for a mass of glossy brunette hair and those kind eyes that smile at me for no particular reason. Sometimes the smile at me even when they are angry with me for not eating all of my vegetables. For some reason this makes me feel safe and that anything is possible. Reading this book that I can hardly carry is possible.
"There you are!"
I see the kind eyes, smiling as usual. Then they focus on the book in my hands. I don't recognise these eyes and when they look back at me it's as if they belong to someone else. I'm not so sure whether this is my mother.
"Jane Eyre? You can't read this. You're too little. Put it back and go find another one."
She is laughing slightly which makes the tone of her voice soft...yet I feel like she is angry with me for not eating up all my vegetables.
I take the book back and don't bother choosing another one.

Nothing is possible.


[I think I actually made a few typos because I only had a minute to write it]

Indecision

If I jump from here will I learn how to fly?
Like when I fell in the lake
and learned how to swim?
I can feel posidens grip
upon my skin.
The desperation,
the fear within.
The doors are all the same with no bells to ring,
no handles to pull,
no gaps to peek.
I raise the white flag,
my will so weak.
Could you ever love
a retired circus freak?
I dreamt of you sometime last night.
I blame you for the babies
I shall never hold and name.
For being starved of smiles
and a glutton for shame.
So sad is the sight
to see a clown in pain.
And I dreamt of her the night before.
I touched her arm,
I asked her "why?"
Maybe things will be clearer
when I am up high?
Upon the big top
is where I shall decide -
whether to live,
or whether to fly.


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