Straightjacket, Poetry in Motion

- is that alright -

It's like a canvas ripping. The seams coming apart, one by one by one. Watch it tear, watch it burn. You like that, don't you? The beauty of destruction. Come then, watch the show. Watch them crumble.

It'll be fun.

Mama has the most wonderful chocolate eyes.

She cries a lot after you've gone to bed. She sits in her room and cries after the lights in house have been turned off. She closes her door gently and for a few moments there stretches a tenuous silence you pray will last until the morning.

But it seems the stronger you hope, the louder she is when she eventually breaks down.

It hurts to hear your Mama cry.

When you get to school in the morning, you practice reading and writing before anyone else arrives. When you are sat alone, in the very far corner of the playground, you find it difficult to watch the other children arrive. They arrive with their parents. They smile. It is so unfamiliar.

Your Mama does not smile. She does not even frown. She hurts.

You imagine you are the one that is hurting her.

You examine your face in the mirror.

"You are just like your Papa."

If you look just like your father, then the surly face staring back at you is him.

Does that make her hate you, you wonder.

Mama.

You don't ask Mama what your Papa is doing, why his affection seems so hard. Asking her why he smiles when he loves her. Teacher says its wrong, but what does Teacher know? You know, Mama knows, Papa knows. It is enough.

You know what love is. You know, even as a child, how to show love.

You lie in bed and listen to Mama crying. You think that this is the way things are meant to be, that any other way would be too strange, those children at school are strange.

It's not real, just fake. Fake smiles, forced hug. Deceiving affection.

Nothing.

Not to be sought or envied.

Nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Your father tells Mama he loves her, shows her through fists.

That is love. Punches and beatings and insults. Want to say 'I miss you'? Slap, slap till you draw blood. Want to say 'I care about you'? Kick, kick and scream, and throw things. Maybe till the person you love is asleep. Until one of your love declarations sends them to sleep.

You know what love is, as resoundly as you know how to spell the word 'apple'.

You learnt that in school yesterday.

See?

Before you could spell 'apple', you saw how Mummy's and Daddy's express love.

A day, a week. The time differs. But Mama always goes away; wandering, and then drifting back, almost unwillingly. But when she comes back, Papa loves her even more.

A happy home.

When this happens she looks for you. It's as though you are an anchor, just dragging her down, down. Keeping her tied to this place.

There is this girl. An odd girl, one of those. Kind people. Kind lives. All an act. You know you can't trust a word she says, and yet she stares at you with adoring eyes.

You hate her, but you need her. She is the machine that latches onto your lungs, and now it is simply too difficult to breath without her.

She worships you, you find her repulsive.

But she helps. Makes it feel a little less like falling, makes it seem a little less alone.

You make your decision.

"I love you more than anything!"

Mama.

Those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.

Poetry in motion.

One down, one to go. Come on, join me. Let's see how fucked up this one is. Papa hits Mama, that's love. Mummy died on Daddy, that's greif.

Greif and love; a perfect combination, don't you think?

You are quiet, but you are solid.

Father stares through you. When you are with him, you do not exist.

Your life is vibrantly bright outside of the confines of those four walls, though. You exist there. But your tongue is sticky and your jaw heavy, restricting you. Still, life is colourful. Sun passing over greens and reds, flashing yellows, waving purples and pinks.

Your eyes hurt.

Quiet and gloomy you proceed, yet with the world so shiny around you, why should anyone care? They do. They hate you, and you can't understand why.

What did you do?

You've been bad. You wronged them, and now you are getting your just punishment. Some small part of your brain argues back, asking what you did, but coming up with no answer. You ignore it.

You are a witch, apparently. A witch who won't talk.

You have reasons. Don't give excuses. You know why it's so hard. But it's still your fault.

The emptiness with your father is too, too much, and it chokes you and blinds you and you can't get through it and you can't speak and it clogs your throat.

Poison. Your father, his grief. It is poison.

He has made you a witch.

You are unlike your mother, and due to this, he cannot get over your mother. You know this. They told you so.

You exist. You do not live, you exist. It is more than you could ever have hoped for.

The scissors resist because they are rusted. She struggles with them but continues her task with the same furious gleam in her eye.

The crowd is breathing softly. Anticipation lines their throats with silence. The scent of wet pavement, pungent human sweat, humidity and the fevered, heavy odour of brokenness hangs in their nostrils.

You are wheezing for air. Your hair falls around you softly and lies still and dead.

You try once to move from your position on the wet cement of the basketball court but your left leg is in a strange position and your knee is in horrible pain. She lands a swift blow to your back and yanks your head up by the remains of your locks.

Cry out, reach up, push her away from your bleeding scalp and butchered hair but the girl snarls and kicks you again.

No matter how much you cry, nothing changes. She will not stop, you cannot free yourself. It just hurts, hurts, hurts.

The scissors catch in your hair and can't be ripped out. You are thrown down. Your head cracks against the pavement.

Shut up, you must shut up. You must do what they say. Do it, do it.

The spell on the observing crowd breaks and someone sneezes. A fat water droplet hits her brow and rolls down. She wipes it away furiously.

You lie still.

Thunder rang out on the horizon.

You are rooted to the spot, painfully aware of your horizontal position. You feel as though you are falling backwards, or to the side, and you won't be able to stop your fall.

Your gaze is unfocused.

Another rain drop hits your cheek. The pavement is dotted with newly fallen moisture.

They grin and mock and laugh, and even if you wanted to you cannot move. Cheek, arm, side, leg. All being soaked through with rain, tears and blood.

Blood.

You cannot run, so it runs for you.

Poetry in motion.

And they're in. They have crawled into your guts and hooked on. Poor, helpless children. They need your sympathy. They need you.

Hah. Don't make me laugh.

Their skeletons will come out of the dark, all in good time.

- with you, no -