What do I remember?
I remember when I was three, I saw a spider
the size of a bathtub, literally in the bathtub,
I shrieked and rushed back to bed, my Nana killed
it with a single tissue.
Was that a dream?
I remember Narnia, my love now,
seeing it in theaters at age four when
Hoodwinked was all sold out.
I’m proud to say I saw it then,
even though I wasn’t going to at all.
I remember when I was five or six, unbalanced
on a bike without training wheels, ‘growing up’ but
falling down. Scraping my entire arm against the brick
wall of my house, blood everywhere
and there is still a scar hiding
on my elbow.
I remember when I was 8, on the verge of tears
every day, listening to jeers and taunts
from a blonde haired tormenter. Yelling at her
to leave me alone, the fears rattling inside me.
The PE teacher told me to ignore her,
that she’d stop.
I remember when I was 10, and I learned my bullies
I had felt so confident when designing the meeting
with my guidance counselor and her,
through completely terrified,
my heart ready to rip through my chest, only
to sink back down again.
For liking me, this girl would become friendless too.
I didn’t understand, I didn’t believe it.
What did I do wrong?
I remember swallowing myself in books,
no age limit here, illustrating dreams,
placing myself in them. Reading, reading,
reading until I was writing, writing,
writing. My pen the mighty sword,
battling evil that choked my throat.
I’ve stopped that.
I remember being so lonely,
so confused, trying too hard
to not be lonely,
the aching, the jarring reality,
I didn’t belong?
I remember eating pretzel goldfish when I was young,
watching Disney’s Tarzan on DVD,
the sliding glass door a looking glass
to the sparkling blue waters beside
I remember watching Cars in theaters
and falling in love with country songs
and NASCAR, pining to rewatch it,
to find it a present for my 7th birthday.
Escapes from reality.
Why do I remember so little?
Why do I remember what I remember?
To reach inside of me, fumbling through
ripped envelopes and liquid stained
letters smudged on the surface,
burned at the edges, trashed in the corner
besides those framed in elegant glass
with ribbons and golden medals.
It’s a curious thing,
we often remember
because they built us,
and forget others
even though they built us too.