The girl in the attic

When I was little, I was made to be small.

My voice was taken, shaken, and broken.

I was told murderous lies

that forced silence

locked me away floating

above my body

in the dark corner

witnessing the streetlight

that bled my windowsill orange

while he crushed breath from my lungs

with the sour smell of stale beer,

spicy sour pine,

and putrified cigarettes

I was confused why they screamed

but I was forced to not make a sound

no matter how much it hurt

no matter if I couldn’t feel my body

no matter if I got lost in the night.

I prayed, one day,

that I’d be small enough,

maybe,

to disappear altogether.

Victory at Home

I was standing on Fulton street waiting for the Number 15 to take me to the corner near my home. The wind was brisk with an occasional chill, but the lifting of the hood of my sweatshirt over my head blocked most of it. This particular stop homes three buses headed out and about town. It feels quite familiar as all three round the corner coming out of the transfer station down by Van Andel Arena. I switch feet. I look across to Veteran’s Park where I danced with wild abandon at a Thursday night drum circle held after the Jazz concert at Ah-Nab-Awen park. The Main Library is behind that. I spent hours of research in those rooms. Everything I was looking at seemed familiar, but with a dream-like quality.

I came to the conclusion that I was but a drop in the puddle in their eyes, but in mine, I was so much bigger.

When I moved away from West Michigan in 1989, I had no idea who I was; broken, discouraged, full of lamentations. I had no direction or purpose. I molded myself into the ideals that I believed I was supposed to be. I became a fair wife, a devout church goer, a preacher of God’s love, a model citizen in every way. I provided Christmas for impoverished children, took them on camping trips, advocated for their protection always seeking approval from outside sources. I was miserable.

After the loss of Jordan, I began rethinking my life and the choices that had brought me to a point where I could no longer stay. My marriage was a disaster, my friends were there but they were all much younger than I so their freedoms were different. I still had no idea who I was or what I wanted to be or do. At 25 years old, I decided to find out who that woman looking back at me in the mirror was. I left everything behind. I cut ties with family, friends, acquaintances, and moved back to a small studio apartment in Kentwood. I married again but it crumbled basically from day one. I moved around the country for about a year, using Greyhound as my means of travel.

By the time I ended up in Arizona I was a disaster. I married for a third time. I found a group of friends that, for the first time, not only saw me for who I am, but encouraged me to be everything I was meant to be. I felt like a toddler whose parents delight in the antics of the little one, but at the same time, I was an adult. I radiated humor and enthusiasm. I decided I was strong enough to move, so I did. I moved across the country again to Tennessee where I lived with my father for a brief time. He was a miserable human being that rejected me just as fast as he embraced me. It was constant mixed messages from him which led to uncertainty and instability.

I found God living in a little church tucked away behind a natural shade of trees. I was told to go there and I’m glad I obeyed. It was like coming home. It was the first group of collective people that not only appreciated my wildness, but saught me out for companionship, help, and entertainment. I imagine it’s what being a rockstar feels like. What’s even cooler is that I adored every one of them right back. I couldn’t help it. I’d waited my whole life to know what it was to be me. I learned it at their knee. It was the most difficult day when I had to say goodbye to them and return to my hometown of Grand Rapids.

Only, it wasn’t my Grand Rapids.

It wasn’t the place where the broken little girl made up ridiculous fantasies of being the President of the United States or curing cancer with a brightly colored cardboard box and a stick found on the playground. This wasn’t the city where I dealt with childhood tragedies with self destructive behaviors. Nothing was the same, including the absence of the monsters that didn’t live under my bed but were under the same roofs as me. The dark secrets were held up to the light until their power whimpered into submission.

This city doesnt know me, power in my words, body thick with laughter, hair demonstrably wild, my secrets laid open to the beauty of rainbows once forbidden from my fingertips. This city is unaware that within its limits, there is a woman with courage as deep as a wristcutters truth, but as furious as a hurricane battering abusers with education. Grand Rapids has yet to understand that I, that had all along existed but had been nearly crushed by history, rose up to find my feet.

I’m standing in the middle of Division and Fulton in my mind, screaming with laughter at the pure wickedness of possibilities to be reached. This may not be my Grand Rapids, but it is my home.

No prayers

I have seen the absence that is evil

I have tasted bitter its fetid seed

I have rebuked the sinner in my home

And also washed their feet

I have felt the winds uprising

As change blew into town

I have seen the faithful abiding

I have reaped what I have sewn

Whether or not the words left my lips

With me, blessing or being a naysayer

I never wish to see the clips

Of a day when there are no prayers

Holiday Blitz

Knowing the depths of my heart like I do,

didn’t prepare me for the absence of you.

I wrap myself in the memories of our youth

decorating our days with living proof

I know you’re with me, I know it’s true

but my heart aches because I can’t hug you.

Promises

As I lay me down to sleep

I know that you will always keep

the promises we made my friend

even when the night never ends

We will never be apart

for I will always carry you in my heart

You were there for me

I was there for you

When we shared everything

We still stayed true

If you took away

every childhood day

I would still choose you

I still carry you in my heart

Sugar Bright

Brightly colored consumers dazzled the streets as glittery sprinkles

Music sporadically puncuates the roast scented air 

Generators squall screams of power to the food trucks serving delectables.

Children, dogs, puppies, and elderly get dragged haphazardly

threading through the tapestry of flamboyant humanity.

Laughter, shouts paging the lost, the haggling and dickering,

Hands of artisans become hands of merchants, hawking wares

I wander through the murky shades of auras blended into one

First I head down one side, recognizing repeat offenders,

enthusiastically exploring the oddities made from new and/or antiquities

Rainbows spin in place then revolve in a resolving pattern

like a quilt come to life, undulating like lovers beneath the blues.

Winning

I am not a battered woman
You have not beaten me.
I will not wear your badge of survivor
I am more than labels placed on me.
I will not wear the moniker that puts me on a shelf
Remove your fractured vision, see me as myself.
I am worth much more in value than you may suspect;
Through my voice which will not remain silent
Until six feet under is my grave
Through my compassion which remains undaunted
Until there’s no one left to save
Through my passion colored paint strokes
On a canvas misbehaved
I am far more wonderful than what little you see,
I deserve to be seen as a woman.
Branded only with equality.