Since it’s the first Throwback Thursday of National Poetry Month, I’m going to share a poem that I wrote in 2003. However, before I do, I feel compelled to tell a bit of the backstory…
I was married for about ten minutes in the 90s to an abuser and a cheat who I’d dated since I was thirteen. During that time, we were apart more than we were together. Being young and foolish, I believed I could change him or fix him, but ultimately, he was happy being broken. Eight days after we were married, I came home from work early to find him in bed with my neighbor. We separated, though we weren’t completely through, and our divorce wasn’t final for another four years.
I was angry for the decade following my divorce… not so much at him, but at myself for being so foolish to waste my youth on this loser. I walked around making bad man jokes and bad marriage jokes. Nowadays, I’m a lot more laid back and happy. In fact, I don’t even like to be around negative people or haters, because negativity is contagious, and I don’t like feeling angry. But now, I’m embarrassed that the people who only knew me during that time will forever think that that’s who I was always meant to be. So, I think this is why I needed to share my backstory with you.
When I wrote this in 2003, I literally woke up in the middle of the night with this in my head, and I had to write it down right then. I haven’t read it practically since the night I wrote it until now. Looking back, I think it’s kind of funny how I went from an AAAA pattern to an AABB pattern, but it was 3:30 in the morning, so perhaps that explains it. Oh, well.
The following poem is a scosche on the angry side, and I didn’t want you think this is what I’m like now. (Despite the poem’s bitter undertones, however, I hope you’ll notice that I still liked the psychological thriller aspect of the story it tells.)
By: Rachel Carrera
September 13, 2003
The sky was violet; my eyes were red.
You brought home another whore to my bed.
They cautioned us someone would end up dead
If we continued together, your Miranda rights read.
“Can I do this?” I thought, as I found your gun.
You always thought I was the naive one,
As you hung with your bitches and had your fun.
But now my mind’s made up; what’s done is done.
What did I do that horrible night?
I imagined you cowering, your face filled with fright.
How pathetic! You were always the one to act out of spite;
But now I was the one who would take great delight.
I creeped in quietly, but you suddenly awoke.
I pointed the barrel, and that’s when I spoke,
“You’ve beaten me up, left my spirit broke
For the last time, you bastard; now this is my joke.”
The gun went off; it sounded so loud.
The next thing I knew, there was a gathering crowd.
“I didn’t mean it!” I tried to scream.
But my words wouldn’t come out; it was like a bad dream.
I’m suddenly awakened, I hear all their cries.
In through the cracks, the light shines in my eyes.
I try to remember, then I realize,
I’ll never get out; I believed all your lies.
And now I am here with my arms at my side.
I can’t seem to move; it’s like my hands are tied.
I didn’t want to go, but they took me away.
I will never forget that horrible day.
When they nailed the lid shut, it was an awful sound;
As they lowered my body down into the ground;
The dirt came pouring down in through the cracks;
I close my eyes and try to relax.
I remember seeing you with her in our bed;
I can’t stop this spinning inside of my head.
But now I recall the last thing you said:
“I hate you, you bitch; I wish you were…”