Monday, March 20, 2017

Have You Ever Lived In Third Person


Empath ...
She was born in a nest
built from shadows, secrets, and tears.
A tiny girl old as yesterday’s locked tongue
was raw wired for channeling misery
before she took her first step.

(Have you ever lived in third person?
Every bump in the night carries whispers,
every scratch a wound, every battle
a knotted stomach, every failure a fall,
every they stripping I from your tongue.)

When a bird cracks through the egg
its an ugly little thing full of what if
and dreams of far flying wings.

With walls full of echoes and faces of ghosts
she never lived fairy tales other than Grimm.
Home wasn’t warm. Home wasn’t hope.
Home was a place she wished to escape.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

6 comments:

blueoran said...

The third-person home is a place devoid of me or you, becomes a sensory iteration of what is only absently present. An address, a heart with "walls full of echoes and faces of ghosts." Some place to get the hell out of. Great response to the challenge, Susie, if Grimm.

Magaly Guerrero said...

This is the sort of poem that starts breaking the heart the moment one reads the title. There is such pain in living without I. And when one reads the first word, things get even worse--she doesn't only exist without a private self, but as an "empath" has to experience the pain of the world, too. No one should have to live with the entire world on her back, especially when the one in question seems to have been born out of misery and into misery. By the time I was done reading the poem, I wanted to jump into it, just so I could grab her and we could runaway together. No one should have to live in a cage.

Martin Kloess said...

Yes. Well captured. You must have experienced it too.

Audrey Howitt aka Divalounger said...

I loved how the imagery in the first stanza grows into the place she wants to forget--empaths and intuitives have a tough time--

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

I am glad I am only a little bit of an empath. I once had a friend who was the full thing, and life was very difficult for her.

rallentanda said...

Well written piece. Unhappy childhoods are like birth marks.They don't disappear.