Poems From A College Freshman



His grip on my hand hardened, but what he doesn’t know

is that I cannot feel the pressure on my hand,

but around my throat, cutting off

every breath I take, blurring my vision

until I submit to the darkness.

They always warn you about the same kind of hurting;

about abuse of both the mind and the body, but

they never warn you about the violence of the soul

and it can so easily be shattered into

a million pieces. How is it even possible,

to love with such passion but be left

completely and utterly broken?

You never find the expiration date

until it’s too late. You never think of the end,

you only know the beginning, the present, the forever.

Once discovered, it forever remains spoiled

like last month’s milk, and no matter

how much sugar you add, it will never

taste sweet like it used to.

So you let it go, throw it

away, and then the violence

of the soul hits you harder than anything; harder

than the belt that belonged to your father;

harder than the fragile snapping

of your bones at just age two; and harder

than that silver, rusted knife to your pure, blue wrist

Harder than anything experienced before.



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