I walked on, unable to help,

knowing that fire in childhood

clenched deep in my pockets all the way home.

 

Every step I took, my hands curled more.

Should I have let go, my childhood escaped

with my turning around after the man,

defending the woman, silencing her cry

as I fight to the ends of my abilities.

And so I clenched my fists, regretting my lack of help,

until I stepped inside and breathed.

 

I remember back, after the sandbox,

to elementary school, how I fought there.

The plain green fields and small children

running around playing games. My

pink dress blowing in the wind as I

watched and picked out he who was

unimportant, and unknowingly my victims.

 

Anger brewing for years, attempts to hold back,

then gym classes. Kicking the balls, my

nine-year-old self saw an opportunity.

My fists uncurled, my leg drew back, I made

contact with the ball, sending it in his direction.

 

It was unimportant who, once again, as long as

it was a him; all my hatred and anger

went towards the gentlemen I knew. Even

the nicest ones fell victim to my wraith.

 

No one could explain my anger at school.

Home, a beautiful place, once he was gone

That should have been the indicator.

The major red flag.

 

Now my father evoked no emotions,

no anger, no sadness, no resentment.

I had used him as a way of justification

of my actions and anger at men.

He had done something, to me, I had

blocked from my memories, and yet,

it fueled my anger for years.

 

Recently I remembered how I hurt

and felt violated – without knowing

the meaning of the word. How traumatic

it was and how quickly I blocked it out.

How significant it was in the reasons behind

all my anger. How I never understood why.

Why it was wrong and why he did it.

Why I had felt so against it. But it was

wrong. And I learned that.

 

He was my reason. Who I was throwing

sand at and kicking balls at. Who I despised.

And because of that blocked memory,

and because of my angry childhood,

I was pushed away. Assumed to be incompetent

as I wouldn’t learn to stop. Put through

program after program, yet, none worked.

 

The tears welling up in their eyes,

breaking the edge and rolling down their

small, pudgy, weak, little faces.

I received endless joy from that.

My eyes locked on their face,

staring into them until they registered

my burning hatred for them and their kind.

The reaction of shock, more hurt, more tears,

pushed me to do more, inflict more pain.

 

This attitude drove a wedge between

myself and any men coming my way.

Now I live alone. My angry childhood

soaring away anyone. And for those who

stay, my still violent tendencies, in the end,

send them running. I regret giving in

to those desires to inflict pain, it has

merely caused me more hurt now.

 

I always think back to the sandbox.

Every time I feel angry, I remember

what that started, why it is so

important for me to clench my fists,

rein in my anger and hold on.

To think of the pleasantness of the

sand, smooth crystals, sitting in my

palm and running through my fingers.

 

I hold my childhood fire deep inside, knowing

the pain and trouble I caused, and

that it is entirely not worth creating

more pain for myself. I live alone, without

someone to love, to depend on, to be there for,

all because the memory of the sandbox

is brought up, and fights against me.