By: Paulette Kelly
I got flowers today. It wasn’t my birthday or any other special day. We had our first argument last night. He said a lot of cruel things that really hurt me. I know he was sorry and didn’t mean the things he said. Because I got flowers today.
I got flowers today. It wasn’t our anniversary or any other special day. Last night, he threw me into a wall and started to choke me. It seemed like a nightmare. I couldn’t believe it was real. I woke up this morning sore and bruised all over. I know he must be sorry Because he sent me flowers today.
I got flowers today. It wasn’t Mother’s Day or any other special day. Last night, he beat me up again. And it was much worse than all other times. If I leave him, what will I do? How will I take care of my kids? What about money? I’ m afraid of him and scared to leave. But I know he must be sorry Because he sent me flowers today.
I got flowers today. Today was a very special day. It was the day of my funeral. Last night he finally killed me. He beat me to death.
If only I had gathered enough courage and strength to leave him, I would not have gotten flowers today.
This poem is dedicated to all the victims and survivors of Domestic Violence.
You ask, why didn’t she leave?
I ask, why did he hit?
An extension of the June Quote of the Month.
Xiao Mei lives to see the dawn of the day.
The hues of brisk yellow match her skin like Chardonnay.
“Be a doctor or lawyer,” both of her parents say.
“It’s not like artists make money anyway.”
Michael is Michael because Mwenye was too hard to pronounce.
But “DeShawn” and “Tyrone” were his names thrown around.
“I bet your dad left you!” his classmates tease and flounce.
But they were the ones who left him feeling broken down.
Fahima always wore her hijab proud.
“It’s not that fashionable. You’re like, wrapped in a shroud.
But this doesn’t affect our friendship,” her friends vowed.
Though when they made plans, she was never invited out.
Jesus strives to uphold the legacy of his name.
His strong arms lift the burden of disdain.
He takes on the jobs no privileged man would claim.
But you know the privileged man doesn’t feel the same.
What constitutes as the American Dream?
Success and wealth and the idea of being free?
Maybe what it is, is what it is indeed.
The meeting of high standards of an oppressing society.
Whether goal-bound, homebound, or career-bound,
Their opportunities are limited to what their surroundings allowed.
Bound? More like boundaries, clearly marked on the ground
Of the caged individuals in the lost, stray pound.
Bound by their parents, their school, their friends.
Bound by their jobs, and never-ending dead ends.
Bound by this dream neither yours nor theirs.
Bound by a system where nobody cares.
To achieve the Dream, a lot more has to be done
Than just sitting around thinking, “One day, we shall overcome”.
Dedicated to an acquaintance of mine, M, and every other POC who feels bound by the restrictions of this seemingly “free” country.
Maybe it’s because I’m autistic
That I don’t understand why we don’t talk
About all those things that make people go Shush
Maybe it’s because I think different
That it makes even less sense
That little girls don’t know what’s wrong with them
Because of the grown men
Maybe it’s because I don’t know the rules change
That I think I’ll get the memo
That blue is the new pink and green, the new yellow
Why can’t I ask and who can’t I love?
Why must I smile? And why must I shrug?
Maybe it’s because I’m scared
And it’s the fear of being wrong
Why didn’t you tell me you felt this strong?
Maybe it’s because no one is standard
But we keep pretending that there is a a norm
Maybe we’ll make the perfect human because science could’ve won
Maybe it’s because I like to watch the sky past
That I forget myself and hope
That maybe the good times will last
I’m a little girl with little girl dreams
Annoyed because goals and resilience are so much different than the movies seem
Maybe it’s because I have PCOS, maybe it’s because I’m stressed
It’s because men always cared about all the wrong things when they see a dress.
Ode to a Nightingale – John Keats
A poem to share and analyse today by Ella Wheeler Wilcox: