Immolation I was born in a burning house. They swaddled me in smoke, fed me with flames and baptized me in the backdraft. Hardened to the heat, I had thought the whole world was wildfire.
I Could Care Less It's so hard learning to expect nothing from your parents when you are born expecting them to be your everything but they can't even really see you behind all their damage-- the silent aching, invisible longing, and unrequited affection stamping your neurons, wiring you to seek out more damaged people until you think that this is how love to supposed to feel so then you learn to need less and to become smaller you learn to hide your monstrous malcontent until you can convince yourself that you couldn't care less
Mourning For Christmas morning youthful daughter prayed, That only peace and love was ever found. With household lost in sordid masquerade Fore Christmas morning, youthful daughter prayed Goodwill her unkind fam’ly might display. Yet for her prayers, ne’er goodness came around. For Christmas, mourning--youthful daughter preyed-- That only peace and love she never found.
I’ve Tried So Hard To Forget How, when brushing my teeth, my father’s screams jostle me into awareness. Skulking down the stairs, the shattering of glass glitters on the floor against a torn backdrop. Reaching down, I cut my hand. The floor and glass are sleek from the vermillion river. Shards peek out of my palm scattering a shimmering light against the wall. And I bleed over my family photos.
A Response to Your Message (A Little Too Late) “We aren’t experts at knowing how best to help you,” like that was supposed to be your role. I never needed you to give me answers, to find fixes. They were there, inside me, waiting to be brought into the light, guided to enlightenment. I needed you to see me, as I was; as I am. needed you to listen, especially to the silence screaming to be understood. But your ears were too full with the sound of your own voice. Your eyes too blinded by a projection of your childhood. Still they convinced you, that you were hearing and seeing me. Repeating that old family history. I am so sorry that they failed to love you the way we all deserved to be. But it’s far too late for you two to keep playing games with me.
Photo credit: MK Loeffler Photography
Caiti Quatmann studied and taught writing at the University of Missouri–St. Louis. She is currently a co-teacher and librarian at a Montessori-inspired and self-directed Microschool. Her interest also includes board games, photography, and volleyball. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri with her husband and their two young children, who she often finds in both her writing and her bed.
