March 23rd, 2025

a poem

my room is eerily quiet.

an empty bed next to mine

no little voice saying, “night night”

no stuffed animals all in a line.

I was glad.

at first.

I hated the sight of the little bed next to mine

I hated the stuffed animals all in a line.

I hated the attention she got

I hated the toys she was bought

I hated that she talked a lot

or so I thought.

I hated putting her to bed

I hated having to play with her

I hated the silly things she said

I hated myself for being immature.

I hated her screaming fits

I hated her manipulation

I hated her conniving wits

I hated her contradictions.

but sometimes when she sat with me

she would sweetly lay her head

on my shoulder and listen quietly

as I read a story before bed.

and sometimes her loud voice would soften

when she was in a certain mood

she would sing sweetly often

and behave as little girls should.

and when I think about these things

something catches in my throat

and in my head her little voice sings

just like I wrote.

so, sitting alone in my now quiet room

having had three years to heal

I remember all these things

the memories I've tried so hard to forget

so i wouldn't have to feel.