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Abstract

would play on nothing to see here smiling and nodding <i>(the adults talking)</i></p><p id="515c">As soon as she made a mend after making amends and tasted stability the wound would be punctured and unravel…</p><p id="2d4e">But they’re just words, right? Just words — <i>It’s okay honey, a tiger can’t change his stripes.</i> <i>He didn’t mean it, </i>they would say.</p><p id="827f">And she believed them until she didn’t anymore and took the words and locked them inside a creepy corridor draped in all things that could have been or were, if only in between the dysfunction where they functioned:</p><p id="80c1"><i>Dreamcatchers, wind chimes, stamps, music boxes, coins, Kahlil Gibran, Ram Dass on vinyl, garden tools, muddy earth, and sunflower seedlings</i></p><p id="137a">Entrapping the words for her holding them down from floating around and setting the false hope on fire once and for all no more desire only acceptance of what couldn’t be given to her <i>~ Sometimes words stalk her like poetry.</i></p><p id="a043"><b>Check out <i>I Call This Trauma</i> by Soberano-Wilson:</b></

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p><div id="ce6a" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/i-call-this-trauma-be41a2e1d90b"> <div> <div> <h2>I Call This Trauma</h2> <div><h3>Free Verse</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*1M39704vGdwrWVo1)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><p id="d4f4">Lindsay Soberano-Wilson’s debut chapbook <a href="https://readmedium.com/about-me-lindsay-soberano-wilson-3d03417d19b0"><i>Casa de mi Corazón: A Travel Journal of Poetry & Memoir</i></a><i> (Poetica)</i> is coming soon. Find her on <a href="http://poetrymatters.medium.com/">Medium</a>, <a href="https://instagram.com/poetry.matters?r=nametag">Instagram</a>, or <a href="http://twitter.com/matters_poetry">Twitter</a>. <a href="https://readmedium.com/9539762b6396?source=post_page-----f67a9171405e--------------------------------">Lindsay Soberano-Wilson</a>©2021.</p></article></body>

Words Stalk Her Like Poetry

Free Verse

Words harsh words sore words a sour lozenge of words stuck in her throat choking on tears kept her from soaring kept her just lingering for wanting of more

But instead those words would roll like drummer boy’s doomsday drum drumming so that there were no cuts scrapes or bruises only punctures on the seams of her botched heart long after something kissed, missed, or hissed at her

She would scramble to pick up the scrambled eggs she threw up at breakfast or whatever mess it was she thought she had made taking ugly to create beauty but in stringing together all of the missing pieces no matter a charm was always missing and yet she would play on nothing to see here smiling and nodding (the adults talking)

As soon as she made a mend after making amends and tasted stability the wound would be punctured and unravel…

But they’re just words, right? Just words — It’s okay honey, a tiger can’t change his stripes. He didn’t mean it, they would say.

And she believed them until she didn’t anymore and took the words and locked them inside a creepy corridor draped in all things that could have been or were, if only in between the dysfunction where they functioned:

Dreamcatchers, wind chimes, stamps, music boxes, coins, Kahlil Gibran, Ram Dass on vinyl, garden tools, muddy earth, and sunflower seedlings

Entrapping the words for her holding them down from floating around and setting the false hope on fire once and for all no more desire only acceptance of what couldn’t be given to her ~ Sometimes words stalk her like poetry.

Check out I Call This Trauma by Soberano-Wilson:

I Call This Trauma

Free Verse

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