Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
My life
is a series of memories –
of mom in the kitchen,
of dad’s disappearance.
But they’re not real,
my memories.
All lies.
I wash away
like a sand castle
as the tide comes in,
leaving broken shells
and scattered seaweed.
Every story I’ve ever told
a myth,
a cloud drifting by.
Not a girl
who was born
and grew up
and can now die
of sadness for never
really being alive.
Late night friendship
undefined,
wind blown,
hands entwined.
Cast a spell,
start out slow.
Altered reflection,
secrets explode.
Delicate magic,
soft eyes closed.
Red petals plucked
from a single rose.
Your eyes are clouds of medicated bliss,
mean and sparkling as you speak.
It hurts, I say.
Yes, you sneer, eyes bright like clear luster marbles.
The brutality leaves me stripped of my powers.
Like a baby, so soft, the words raise blisters on my skin.
Am I just a story you tell yourself?
I dream a man ties you up.
He hates mothers, having suffered much at their hands.
This vial is my betrayal,
a slow, steady poison passed down, mother to daughter.
Can’t you please leave me intact when you go,
one final suit of armor to protect me?
A glimpse of dull grey fear shadows your eyes,
and I soften.
I have no wish to fill your remaining time with torture.
Disease delivers enough of that.
Pain is real and I keep it close for comfort
as you lead me through the fog.
I follow because I know no other way.
I am your only child.