My Childhood

At nine I saw her angered palm,
Speak sharply with my rosy cheek,
Kissing it briskly as it left the room…
I sank into the hidden safety…
Of the lounge chair she owned.

At ten I felt the final count,
As the numbers were snapped,
By my sheilding arm.
Falling into splinters of timber,
That seemed to symbolise her shards of sanity.

At eleven I watched her leave,
Only to return with a smiling face,
I wondered where she had left her scowl.
What cavern hid her disorder,
From her confused children?

At twelve I felt her shaking fear,
Realising at once,
That one day I might be her.
I may taste her bitter regret,
Of a guilty past she did not own.

At thirteen, I did as she taught me,
Scraping the pain from my tortured soul…
Hiding the anger behind a blanket of smiles,
I watched myself come undone,
In the only way I knew how.

At fourteen I built a perfect closet…
Tucked away the secrets of my mothers pain,
And hoped they would fade, like scars…
Instead she often tugs them from the shelves,
And stands me face to face with a monster,
I can not bear to see…

At fifteen I watched her walk the halls,
In search of a secret, that never existed…
To prove something or other,
To a man she said she loved.

At sixteen I tore myself from my name…
And slipped into another skin,
Allowing my past to slip away…
Into the loungechair…
My mother owned.

My Childhood


Tumut, Australia

  • Artist
  • Artwork Comments 2

Artist's Description

A poem about my mother.

Artwork Comments

  • Jane Keats
  • visualmetaphor
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