The thought of being alone with my thoughts scares the shit out of me.
When I am alone,
My stomach sinks,
Tingles fill my skin.
My blood begins to boil.
I freeze up with anger.
The fear of it all makes me want to curl up into a ball and cry.
I can't be alone with my thoughts because they will eat me alive on sight.
The luring monster in my head needs addressing.
I refuse to unlock that beast again.
The lack of freedom I am forcing myself to have is for the best of everyone close to me.
The vile
Ruthless girl I once was
Destroying everything in her path
Is no more
She shall forever be no more.
-Gabbie Sigmon
About the Creator
Gabbie Sigmon
I can't figure out what my own name is. I woke up one day and didn't realize who I was. I got lost in translation between the version that everyone else created.
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Dragonfly.
I wasn't really there with my mom, mentally, when we went white water rafting. The only thing about that day that didn't annoy me was the dragonfly. The dragonfly was bright, shiny blue with grey wings and deep black features. First it landed on her, and I thought "Good for her!". I never thought, "what about me?". But, when it flew from her onto me, I felt sensational. It was an waking of my brain that I needed for the day. Not the rapid water we were floating on with strangers. Not the riding in a bus with a life jacket on for thirty minutes. Not the hat that smelled strongly of a construction workers ball sack. None of that stuff phased me. But that dragon fly....
By Gabbie Sigmon4 years ago in Poets
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
Feelings Never Die
It is Valentine's Day again, and it bought back memories that were over fifty years old. It bought me back to 1971, and I woke up and I knew my baby was due today. I was big and pregnant, and I felt like I was about to burst wide open. Imagine my surprise when the doctor told my I had a due date of February 14. I couldn't believe it, and since my baby was due today, I felt I could indulge myself a bit. I had gained a lot of weight, and chocolate was on the no-no list, but I had came to the end of this pregnancy, and I hoped it would be okay, after all I would deliver this baby today. So I walked across the street to the grocery story, and bought myself, a peppermint patty, covered in chocolate, my favorite. Me and my Valentine's baby would enjoy it together.
By Susan Payton4 days ago in Fiction
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