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.