you, with a galvanized ear leading to tubules
that course straight up into your brain;

you, possessing databanks built out of flesh
humming in data process heaven just behind your bone walls;

you, who would prefer to bleed ink at every site in
the nation of punctures that live all over your body;

you, who knew what fifteen years old was supposed to look like
but found its imprint continuously escaping you no matter how much
you pulled open your ribcage and offered it landing space;

you, who found yourself standing pawn ready
while being forced to watch your own white queen checkmate slaughter nightly;

you, who read every issue of Seventeen
like they comprised an encyclopedia set of young womanhood
and trying to shove the information into a new disk partition
above your eyes;

you, who would rather stamp words on your forehead than scream;

and you, the android wearing fake pointed ears
while living with a pack of Romulans. The problem is,

the fake ears give you away. Don’t think that
the peaks of those curved eardrops, those
open skin seashells mounted on either side of your head
aren’t spelling out your inner circuitry with their points
as you walk by.

You must understand that the aliens around you
cannot read the hieroglyphics. They stare at every signature
trailed behind your temples and revealed by the curtain of your hair
and think that it is a curse, an upraised middle finger,
a refusal to wield disruptor guns and wear armor that can never fit you. And

maybe it is: but either way, you must
pull the shame out of your navel piece by piece,
yanking at the little metal chain links that protrude out of the hole
that connect you to your birth; extract the coiled up chain
that has rested below your sternum since you were ten. You know
that its linked serpent head is what strangles you while you sleep,
wrapping itself around your vocal chords,
biting at your tongue backwards until
the words refuse to leave your body. And

one day, I want to see you kneel. Chant
mantras and light holy incense before one of
the busted-up Apple IIe’s in the computer lab
on the second floor of your high school, the
make-shift monastery where you exude prayers in Chicago font
during every single study hall. And keep praying.
The words will be your way out.

Written 11/4 and 11/9/10
© 2010 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights reserved.

——————————————————————————————————
This poem was written for We Write Poems Prompt #27, in which we were directed to write a healing poem. I won’t offer any explanation this time, I will just let the poem stand as it. I hope you enjoyed it.

-Nicole
——————————————————————————————————
Follow @ravenswingpoet

Stumble It!

-Nicole
——————————————————-
the girl squirms around in the back seat of
her daddy’s eighty-six taurus to watch out of
the back windshield disappearing palm trees
and green leaves, verdant dots and dashes

(she’s too numb to cry again)

but her view is mostly obscured by the
ugly grey and orange u-haul trailer being
dragged behind them, chained, bumping,
and jumping on the side streets of
yet another town
left behind

her toys are in there
her life is in there
truncated

this is the eighth time they’ve moved

at first it was an adventure
seeing different and elegant places, faces,
and terrains

now it is just plain
now it is just pain

now it is just insane

Written 5/27/08
© 2008 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

Stumble It!

Beholder’s eye seeks beauty ‘round
And I spy God’s creation grand -
Within me, wonder, and joy profound,
For He holds all in His Hands.
Spilt rainbows wash through Arizona land
From pale peach sand to green scrub trees -
Such beauty brings me to my knees.

Now, years are stamped upon my face;
In my hair, silver veins rise.
In memory solid, a photograph’s placed -
I don’t forget those clear blue skies
Nor the love of parents in childhood eyes.
Fond memory dances on sepia faces -
My mind journeys to exquisite places.

Written sometime in 2004
© 2004 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

He himself was a mystery,
Written out in pale skin,
Bony fingers, slate grey eyes,
And yellow-white hair
That would put a Swede to shame.

And against the silver-blue sky
We stood, two playground misfits –
One paler than the moon, the
Other, a chocolate brown mixed girl;

Examining clues and taking notes,
I forgot my tortures at the hands
Of other children. I forgot that
I should have been a girl playing house.

Instead, as one boy’s dreams turned
Him into Sherlock Homes,
I became Watson.

Written 8/17/2007

© 2007 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.