Aaaand I haven't written any night time poetry in a while - I think this poem pretty much sums up the reasons why I stopped. Whoops.
I told you that I didn’t like my hands,
that they were riddled with lines, like an old woman.
As you traced your fingers up and down my palms you
simply compared my lines to veins on a leaf,
and you said they were beautiful.
Yet, if you turned my hand over you would have seen
the dark red marks where my nails had dug,
where I had tried to claw out the sorrow from under my skin.
You told me that someone had stolen the sun’s rays
and woven them into my straight, blonde hair.
You never noticed the dark, sludge brown roots
emerging from my scalp; reminding me that
I would never be as perfect as you wanted me to be.
Once you said that sometimes my eyes would sparkle so much
that you thought you were looking at the surface of the ocean.
It reminded you of that time you were in Barbados with your father,
when everything was alright in the world.
Little did you know that, yes, my eyes did gleam and glisten –
but only with my unshed tears.
I tried darling, I tried and I tried to be brave.
But when the monsters crawled out from under my bed
and snuck into my mind, it made life difficult.
They fed on my childish hopes and dreams until
my heart was as hollow as that pumpkin
that we carved together last October.
And as the weather gets warmer and my skin gets darker
The little white lines on my hips come out to play again
and they sing their menacing song,
and whisper their threatening words.
Often, the roar of the tempest of blood in my ears
will drown out their tempting murmurs.
But when I’m alone, and I think of how your eyes looked
this time last year when the sun hit them at a certain angle,
their murmurs turn to screams.
No matter how hard I try to cover my ears,
They always seem to win.