All the things I never said and some of what I did
Were in the letter I mailed to you, tear stained
I took the time to seal it well, careful with the pain the letter contained
You never mentioned it, and I was too scared, all my bravery dried up by posting it
I waited for you to call me and say now I understand
But you didn’t and I regretted the words penned by my hand
I found it after you died, there it was, proof that it was received!
But thing was, it was still sealed, I felt deceived.
You never opened it. You never opened me. Did it sear you, giving you notice of all you refused to see?
But what I now can accept to be true, is a letter from me, handwritten, tear soaked, wouldn’t be something that interested you.
I dust it off and put it away. In a pile of things I’ll show my own daughter one day.
About the Creator
Jackie Adams
chronic, acerbic truth teller with memories for days. my hope for writing is to illuminate the shameful, murky parts so they feel loved, come to dance, and make merry.
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More stories from Jackie Adams and writers in Poets and other communities.
Your Life’s Work
You made me a card for my birthday. It was a painting created from a picture of us, but only I made it to the card. The arm that was slung around your back in the photo was now just suspended in air, creating a clumsy ballerina type pose. You didn’t put yourself in it. Just me. Alone. And I’m reaching for someone who didn’t want to be in the picture anymore. Who cut herself out. Just me, still looking for somewhere to put my arms, for someone to hold on to. You said I always asked for too much. I managed to grab onto you for a second in the photo, but what you created from it left me alone. You escaped my grasping, desperate hands. You recreated the image of us into an image of me, alone. Your magnum opus, your life’s work, has always been to escape these desperate hands. And I have always been reaching for air. I take my arm and recreate the pose. I take down the clumsy stretch that once held onto my mother and I put it across myself, creating an embrace. I hug myself as I cry, hug myself until I transform. I was once a daughter. But now I am my own mother, holding myself as I heal from your life’s work. Thanks for the card mum.
By Jackie Adams2 years ago in Poets
Where's the Glory?
In breaking news, rehabilitated Republican Senator Johnnie Johnson (Pronouns: HE, HIM, HIS) called a press conference from the Men’s room of the New Orleans Louis Armstrong International Airport, Concourse B, across from the Ignatius Reilly’s Lucky Dog stand. The Senator had just returned from a sexual reorientation rehabilitation program in Memphis, TN after being publically disgraced at a Buckee’s Truckstop restroom soliciting sex from an undercover cop three months ago. He is a founding member of the Reformed Christians for Christ, a conservative, pro-family and ex-gay advocacy group. In the spirit of being reborn, Senator Johnson invited reporters to marvel at his plans for a major remodeling of airport bathrooms.
By Cathy Schieffelin6 days ago in Humor
Comments (1)
Very powerful beautiful poem!