Disclaimer: The content of this poem might disturb others, reader's discretion is advised. This poem talks about self-harm, mention of blood, strong languages such as cursing and swear words, sexual themes, and underage smoking. The views and opinions expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect the publication, the Association it belongs to, and the University.
We end the WPD 2022 Series with a poem that deals with heavy, albeit disturbing themes that will shake your core. Gabrielle Agbulos of 2COM1 shares the darker and a more grim image of growing up, one's relationship with their mother, and the events leading up to the night in which they had a brush with death.
five steps before slumber
by Gabrielle Agbulos
i wake mother up at three in the morning with a knife in my hands.
her screams echo throughout the tiny apartment,
watching me with wide eyes,
hands shaking.
i can’t see through the blood leaking into my eyes,
dripping down into my ears,
settling into the pit of my stomach.
“what did you do? what did you do?”
i find myself at a loss of words
for the fifth time that day.
one.
my little sister screams my name
in a cruel attempt to wake me up,
and with eyes half-shut i swat her tiny hands away and
grumble, grumble until i think she has left.
but she does not leave; instead,
she hands me a bowl of half-eaten cereal
and it is only then that i notice
that the menace has trailed white all over the floor
and it is everywhere;
a crime scene of dairy splattered swirling against wood
and i am confused and frustrated
but as soon as i look down at her
and she smiles at me with a spoon in her hand
suddenly i do not know what to say.
“eat?”
(mother takes her away, scolds her and gives her hand a spank.
i tell her it’s okay but she only spanks her again. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry,”
apology after apology even though i never asked for one.)
two.
they are fighting again,
this time over breakfast with little girl sitting in her chair, staring at them
and i can’t help but laugh as she starts to copy father,
hands on her hips, lips pursed
brows furrowed and all that is left is the
red face and whiskey breath and she is
a spitting image of the monster sitting across me.
i laugh too loud and he turns to look at me
and i feel my chuckles die down in my throat
as he looms over me
(he is like darkness;
in my eyes he is an angry shadow of
scribbles and toenail clippings and red crayon
and if i look at him and remember that he is real my hands start to shake)
as he stares
i feel small, so small
i shrink away like a coward, like a child
as every insult i have ever prepared—
practiced in front of the bathroom mirror
whenever i’d hear a raised voice,
a door slam,
mother’s cries at night—
curdles away like rot, decay.
it drips away and all i am left with are
lips bitten raw and hot tears sitting in my eyes.
“what’s your problem? what the fuck is your problem?”
(when he brings up the baby, i am left sitting alone with mother
her hands are clasped together,
and there are patches of red dotting her skin,
claw marks of her own doing sprawled everywhere
she looks at me but as she looks, she avoids my gaze.
there are so many things she wants to say
and i want to tell her it’s okay, i understand
because i know she is tired and i want nothing more than to take all the tiredness away
but all that comes out of her mouth is “he’s not always like that”
and all my sympathy melts away
as my hands clasp into fists, mouth sprawling into a thin line
instead of
“i know it’s hard and i understand and you don’t have to worry about me and it’s okay,”
all that comes out is “okay”—
thick as steel, cold as a winter breeze.)
three.
i am sitting in a rigid wooden chair with my earphones popped in,
half-asleep as i vaguely hear an old man’s voice
speak of kant or aristotle
or whichever old white man we are discussing today
and at some point my head shoots up as he calls my name and i say “yes?”
and he asks me if i believe in god
and if i regret how i have lived my life
and if i am afraid of death or if i am afraid of dying or if i am simply scared of being alone
and i don’t know when i start crying but somewhere along the way
i find my voice and ask him to stop, please stop
and in response i hear crackling silence
and realize that class ended ten minutes ago
and i am the only one still in the room.
(by the time mother peeks her head into my room
i am wiping the last of my tears away
but i am still shaking and shivering,
my vision feels warped; all the thoughts in my head
are echoing so loud they feel like screams.
she asks me if i’m okay and i say yeah. yeah, just tired.
and i know she does not believe me but what else is there to say)
four.
my mother has to grab me by the shoulder and shake me back and forth, back and forth
until my brain is rattling in my skull
for me to realize that she has called my name five times.
“what? what do you want?”
i hear it in my voice;
sharp like shards of shrapnel, freezing to the touch
and she winces, fidgets with her fingers—
something inside of me stirs and for some reason i suddenly have the urge to apologize—
before she tells me what's wrong.
i settle down into my seat,
push the fish that’s been sitting on my plate
back and forth, back and forth
all it does is stare at me with eyes blank and lifeless.
for some reason it comes across as a challenge.
“nothing. everything’s fine.”
(after i am done eating she offers to clean my plate
but in a small voice, bated breath,
i say no, thank you and bring my dishes to the sink
and scrub over, over, over again
until my fingers are wrinkled and pruny and i wonder what it would like to feel old
and i am staring blankly into space with a smile when i feel mother hug me tight, from behind.
suddenly i am eight years old again
and i have been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“i love you,” she murmurs.
i cannot bring myself to respond.)
five.
i am standing over a bed at three in the morning
with red and black spots clouding my vision,
wrists split open, pale hands clutching mother’s shaking ones
murmuring “i’m sorry, i'm sorry, i’m sorry”
as my entire life flashes before my eyes and i feel
like i have not lived so much as i have been afraid.
i'm sorry for the time i snuck into your purse without asking
that one time when i was sixteen
and i took a cigarette out of your beloved box
and choked on the smoke, laughing about how it tasted like
newspaper and wood shavings and working a 9-5
i’m sorry for sneaking out that one time,
and that other time, and that other time, and that other time
with tits out and stomach held in,
pressing bodies against men i didn’t know—
men i wouldn’t want to know with better lighting
and a less broken heart—
pretending like you weren’t waiting for me,
hands clasped over your chest in prayer and head bowed down,
tears and snot all over your face as i ignore your calls
and until sunrise you pray that i return home to you safe.
i’m sorry for telling you
that when i graduate and get a job i will bring you to the tattoo parlor,
and we will get matching tattoos of
something meaningful or something stupid or something that’s a little bit of both
in a place grandma will never see,
because she will not understand
just as many others do not understand
that you have always been my best friend first
and my mother second.
i’m sorry for telling you that when i have the money
i will buy us a place that you can be proud of—
a place you are not afraid to call home—
and we will spend years
putting tulips in vases
and lighting candles that smell of cinnamon and cedar wood
and painting ugly paintings and taking even uglier photos
that we will hang up on the walls,
growing old in this place that we call home.
-
(three weeks from now,
you will find a crumpled note under my pillow
with my last words written
in chicken-scratch handwriting:
“i’m sorry. really, i am.
i honestly thought i was going to make it.”)
