04-13-2016, 07:52 PM
My parents named me Edwin, a long, long time ago;
named after Uncle Ed, I can recall.
Eddy never suited me, so when I was quite small,
I hid in tiny places, then whenever mother called,
I’d keep quite still and make believe
I wasn’t me at all.
That uncle? Never knew him. He always sent a card
at Christmas and my birthday every year.
I never once wrote back, although my mother always did,
then one dark day, in Autumn, Ed appeared.
He came in to the kitchen, where mother used to sit;
I was hiding in the cupboard near the door.
I can’t remember things he said, but father had just died;
I think that I was only nine but know I never cried.
There were mops and shoes and winter coats
that I could get behind; when mother looked,
I got right back and lay down on the floor.
They talked a lot but quietly, I maybe fell asleep
then uncle Eddy, he got mad,
he made my mother weep.
Mother used to cry a lot, there were reasons why she should,
so things got pretty tearful lots of times.
It never really bothered me; I would go off to the woods,
and listen to the birds up in the pines.
So hidden in the cupboard, I dreamt about the sky
and running fast through summer’s cooling breeze.
I could feel my hair all streaming out
and never questioned why
that in my dream I wore a skirt,
bare down from my knees
The shouting stopped, I listened
but I couldn’t hear a sound,
so I pushed the door and peeped into the room.
I must have clattered quite a lot
as I got myself turned round,
and fell about against the boots and brooms.
No one was there to hear me; no note was left to say
where they had gone, when they’d be back
or why they’d gone away.
It’s funny, but I can’t recall
what thoughts I had to hide;
I whistled as I walked
through our front door into fresh air.
I came back in real quickly, it was damp and chill outside;
I was hungry, I was cold, but didn’t care.
The fire had died, it smelt of soot; I felt empty and alone.
The basket for the logs was empty, too.
I figured they had gone to get some wood
and they would phone
so I got a cloth to clean it first…
and oddly, I still do.
Headlights in the distance made moving picture shows
as they flashed just briefly through the window pane;
I remember looking out by standing on tip-toes,
like a ballet-dancer getting used to pain.
I sat there in the darkness, at least an hour went by,
but time gets stretched upon the rack of years.
I went upstairs to father’s room, the window was too high;
I broke his pipe as I climbed up…
down came surprising tears.
Eyesight blurred, I fell headlong
and tore my best pink shirt.
I’d more but this was longer than the rest.
Once, I took my trousers off
to pretend it was a skirt;
mother smiled, observing that
I didn’t look my best
but father, he was furious,
I remember what he said;
he claimed I was no son of his
and made me go to bed.
I saw a light in mother’s room, faintly round the door.
It gave me comfort knowing
that she had her bed in there.
My crying left me muddled, I had never cried before;
it seemed so right, me in her bed, undressed, unwashed and bare.
The light was from a drifting moon, lost in endless night,
stark shadows leapt and lunged around the walls.
I pulled her quilt right over me and hugged her pillow tight.
I thought I heard her scream my name;
a lonely Screech Owl’s call.
I rarely feel as I felt then, strange thoughts are normal now.
Beneath the quilt, the warm soft quilt, I let my body go.
The tears had gone but left me tired, I stayed awake somehow;
if I lay still, sensation died; no arms, no legs, no…no.
Yet it was there, I knew it was, a part of me I could not bare;
not bare to touch, not bare to see;
not bare these thoughts I could not share.
An owl's sharp screech reminded me
that when I hid, I ceased to be;
at least Edwin would leave my skin
and I'd be glad I wasn't him.
The car turned quickly, gravel flew,
I leapt out of the bed.
Downstairs a door closed, mother’s steps,
and then she shouted...Ed.
I quickly tried to find my clothes,
remembered what my father said,
so on with mother’s silken robe,
down the stairs in twos and threes,
in to arms that held me tight,
kisses showering from above,
beating hearts that seemed too loud,
like love played on two drums.
Breathlessly we staked our claims,
she my mother, me her dove.
My father’s words came back right then…
I was no one’s son.
In quiet times I live again, the night when mother softly said
that I was leaving in the spring,
a new life in a city school.
I listened to her reasoning,
and where she’d been with Uncle Ed,
and how they’d argued over me,
and why she thought she’d been a fool,
and how she loved me, always would
and things would turn out for the best.
Her words would cut me through the years,
but bleeding gave my brain a rest.
School was soon a memory;
I hid myself, became depressed.
My nicks and cuts were personal,
I wanted out, I craved release.
This body had to go away,
it was not me, it was not mine…
The friends I had were all fucked up,
I told them that I was not me.
I showed them all my scars of hate
then cut me, cut me…one last time.
Through lights that yellowed into black,
I slipped away, and I was free.
Why do I need to tell you this,
the secret thing that no one knows?
The surgeon told me he could help,
a greater cut would let me be
what I had always known inside,
inside my head, beneath my clothes;
The pain has gone and Edwin. too.
He is no more…now I am she.
Edwina.
tectak2016
Original but with line lengths undefined. Fucked up on copy but left deliberately.
My parents named me Edwin, a long, long time ago;they named me after Uncle Ed, the best I can recall.Eddy never suited me, so when I was quite small,I used to hide in tiny places whenever mother called;I’d keep quite still and make believe I wasn’t me at all.That uncle? Never knew him. He always sent a cardat Christmas and my birthday every year.I never once wrote back, though mother always did,then one dark day, in Autumn, Ed appeared. He came in to the kitchen, where mother used to sit;I was hiding in the cupboard near the door.I can’t remember things he said, but father had just died, I guess that I was only eight or nine.There were mops and shoes and winter coatsthat I could get behind; when mother looked,I got right back and lay down on the floor. They talked a lot but quietly, I maybe fell asleep;then uncle Eddy, he got mad, he made my mother weep.Mother used to cry a lot, I guess she was quite sad,so things got pretty tearful lots of times.It never really bothered me; I would go off to the woods,and listen to the birds whistling unseen in the pines.Hidden in the cupboard, I dreamt about the skyand running fast through summer’s cooling breeze.I could feel my hair all streaming out and never questioned whythat in my dream I wore a skirt, bare down from my kneesThe shouting stopped, I listened but I couldn’t hear a sound,so I pushed the door and peeped into the room.I must have clattered quite a lot as I got myself turned round,and fell about against the boots and brooms.No one was there to hear me; no note was left to saywhere they had gone, when they’d be back or why they’d gone away.It’s funny, but I can’t recall what thoughts I had to hide;I whistled as I walked through our front door into fresh air.I came back in real quickly, it was damp and chill outside;I was hungry, I was cold, but didn’t care.The fire had died, it smelt of soot; I felt empty and alone. The basket for the logs was empty, too.I figured they had gone to get some wood and they would phoneso I got a cloth to clean it first…and oddly, I still do.Headlights in the distance made moving picture showsas they flashed just briefly through the window pane;I remember looking out by standing on tip-toes,like a ballet-dancer getting used to pain. I sat there in the darkness, at least an hour went by, but time gets stretched upon the rack of years.I went upstairs to father’s room, the window was too high;I broke his pipe as I climbed up…I cried surprising tears.Climbing down I fell headlong and tore my best pink shirt,I’d more but this was longer than the rest.Once, I took my trousers off to pretend it was a skirt;mother smiled, observing that I didn’t look my best but father, he was furious, I remember what he said;he claimed I was no son of his and made me go to bed.I saw a light in mother’s room, faintly round the door.It gave me comfort knowing that she had her bed in there.My crying left me muddled, I had never cried before;it seemed so right, me in her bed, undressed, unwashed and bare. The light was from a drifting moon, lost in endless night,stark shadows leapt and lunged around the walls.I pulled her quilt right over me and hugged her pillow tight.I thought I heard her scream my name; a lonely Screech Owl’s call.I rarely feel as I felt then, strange thoughts are not strange now.Beneath the quilt, the warm soft quilt, I let my body go.The tears had gone but left me tired, I stayed awake somehow;if I lay still sensation died, I felt no arms, nor legs nor…no.Yet it was there, I knew it was, a part of me I could not bare;not bare to touch, not bare to see, not bare to show to anyone.The screaming owl reminded me that when I hid, I was not there;at least Edwin had gone away and I was happy on my own.The car turned quickly, gravel flew, I leapt out of the bed.Downstairs a door closed, mother’s steps, and then she called for me.I quickly tried to find my clothes, remembered what my father said,so on with mother’s silken robe, down the stairs in twos and threes,in to arms that held me tight, kisses showering from above,beating hearts that seemed too loud, like love played on two drums;breathlessly we staked our claims; she my mother, me her dove;my father’s words came back right then…I was no one’s son.In quiet times I live again, the night when mother softly saidthat I was leaving in the spring, a new life in a city school.I listened to her reasoning, and where she’d been with Uncle Ed,and how they’d argued over me, and why she thought she’d been a fool,and how she loved me, always would and things would turn out for the best.Her words would cut me through the years, but bleeding gave me peace.School was soon a memory; I hid myself, became depressed.My nicks and cuts were personal, I wanted out, I craved release.This body had to go away, it was not me, it was not mine…The friends I had were all fucked up, I told them that I was not me. I showed them all my scars of hate then cut me, cut me…one last time.Through lights that yellowed into black, I slipped away, and I was free.Why do I need to tell you this, the secret thing that no one knows? The surgeon told me he could help, a greater cut would let me bewhat I had always known inside, inside my head, beneath my clothes;The pain has gone and Edwin. too. He is no more…now I am she. Edwina. tectak2016[/i][/i][/i][/i][/i][/i]
named after Uncle Ed, I can recall.
Eddy never suited me, so when I was quite small,
I hid in tiny places, then whenever mother called,
I’d keep quite still and make believe
I wasn’t me at all.
That uncle? Never knew him. He always sent a card
at Christmas and my birthday every year.
I never once wrote back, although my mother always did,
then one dark day, in Autumn, Ed appeared.
He came in to the kitchen, where mother used to sit;
I was hiding in the cupboard near the door.
I can’t remember things he said, but father had just died;
I think that I was only nine but know I never cried.
There were mops and shoes and winter coats
that I could get behind; when mother looked,
I got right back and lay down on the floor.
They talked a lot but quietly, I maybe fell asleep
then uncle Eddy, he got mad,
he made my mother weep.
Mother used to cry a lot, there were reasons why she should,
so things got pretty tearful lots of times.
It never really bothered me; I would go off to the woods,
and listen to the birds up in the pines.
So hidden in the cupboard, I dreamt about the sky
and running fast through summer’s cooling breeze.
I could feel my hair all streaming out
and never questioned why
that in my dream I wore a skirt,
bare down from my knees
The shouting stopped, I listened
but I couldn’t hear a sound,
so I pushed the door and peeped into the room.
I must have clattered quite a lot
as I got myself turned round,
and fell about against the boots and brooms.
No one was there to hear me; no note was left to say
where they had gone, when they’d be back
or why they’d gone away.
It’s funny, but I can’t recall
what thoughts I had to hide;
I whistled as I walked
through our front door into fresh air.
I came back in real quickly, it was damp and chill outside;
I was hungry, I was cold, but didn’t care.
The fire had died, it smelt of soot; I felt empty and alone.
The basket for the logs was empty, too.
I figured they had gone to get some wood
and they would phone
so I got a cloth to clean it first…
and oddly, I still do.
Headlights in the distance made moving picture shows
as they flashed just briefly through the window pane;
I remember looking out by standing on tip-toes,
like a ballet-dancer getting used to pain.
I sat there in the darkness, at least an hour went by,
but time gets stretched upon the rack of years.
I went upstairs to father’s room, the window was too high;
I broke his pipe as I climbed up…
down came surprising tears.
Eyesight blurred, I fell headlong
and tore my best pink shirt.
I’d more but this was longer than the rest.
Once, I took my trousers off
to pretend it was a skirt;
mother smiled, observing that
I didn’t look my best
but father, he was furious,
I remember what he said;
he claimed I was no son of his
and made me go to bed.
I saw a light in mother’s room, faintly round the door.
It gave me comfort knowing
that she had her bed in there.
My crying left me muddled, I had never cried before;
it seemed so right, me in her bed, undressed, unwashed and bare.
The light was from a drifting moon, lost in endless night,
stark shadows leapt and lunged around the walls.
I pulled her quilt right over me and hugged her pillow tight.
I thought I heard her scream my name;
a lonely Screech Owl’s call.
I rarely feel as I felt then, strange thoughts are normal now.
Beneath the quilt, the warm soft quilt, I let my body go.
The tears had gone but left me tired, I stayed awake somehow;
if I lay still, sensation died; no arms, no legs, no…no.
Yet it was there, I knew it was, a part of me I could not bare;
not bare to touch, not bare to see;
not bare these thoughts I could not share.
An owl's sharp screech reminded me
that when I hid, I ceased to be;
at least Edwin would leave my skin
and I'd be glad I wasn't him.
The car turned quickly, gravel flew,
I leapt out of the bed.
Downstairs a door closed, mother’s steps,
and then she shouted...Ed.
I quickly tried to find my clothes,
remembered what my father said,
so on with mother’s silken robe,
down the stairs in twos and threes,
in to arms that held me tight,
kisses showering from above,
beating hearts that seemed too loud,
like love played on two drums.
Breathlessly we staked our claims,
she my mother, me her dove.
My father’s words came back right then…
I was no one’s son.
In quiet times I live again, the night when mother softly said
that I was leaving in the spring,
a new life in a city school.
I listened to her reasoning,
and where she’d been with Uncle Ed,
and how they’d argued over me,
and why she thought she’d been a fool,
and how she loved me, always would
and things would turn out for the best.
Her words would cut me through the years,
but bleeding gave my brain a rest.
School was soon a memory;
I hid myself, became depressed.
My nicks and cuts were personal,
I wanted out, I craved release.
This body had to go away,
it was not me, it was not mine…
The friends I had were all fucked up,
I told them that I was not me.
I showed them all my scars of hate
then cut me, cut me…one last time.
Through lights that yellowed into black,
I slipped away, and I was free.
Why do I need to tell you this,
the secret thing that no one knows?
The surgeon told me he could help,
a greater cut would let me be
what I had always known inside,
inside my head, beneath my clothes;
The pain has gone and Edwin. too.
He is no more…now I am she.
Edwina.
tectak2016
Original but with line lengths undefined. Fucked up on copy but left deliberately.
My parents named me Edwin, a long, long time ago;they named me after Uncle Ed, the best I can recall.Eddy never suited me, so when I was quite small,I used to hide in tiny places whenever mother called;I’d keep quite still and make believe I wasn’t me at all.That uncle? Never knew him. He always sent a cardat Christmas and my birthday every year.I never once wrote back, though mother always did,then one dark day, in Autumn, Ed appeared. He came in to the kitchen, where mother used to sit;I was hiding in the cupboard near the door.I can’t remember things he said, but father had just died, I guess that I was only eight or nine.There were mops and shoes and winter coatsthat I could get behind; when mother looked,I got right back and lay down on the floor. They talked a lot but quietly, I maybe fell asleep;then uncle Eddy, he got mad, he made my mother weep.Mother used to cry a lot, I guess she was quite sad,so things got pretty tearful lots of times.It never really bothered me; I would go off to the woods,and listen to the birds whistling unseen in the pines.Hidden in the cupboard, I dreamt about the skyand running fast through summer’s cooling breeze.I could feel my hair all streaming out and never questioned whythat in my dream I wore a skirt, bare down from my kneesThe shouting stopped, I listened but I couldn’t hear a sound,so I pushed the door and peeped into the room.I must have clattered quite a lot as I got myself turned round,and fell about against the boots and brooms.No one was there to hear me; no note was left to saywhere they had gone, when they’d be back or why they’d gone away.It’s funny, but I can’t recall what thoughts I had to hide;I whistled as I walked through our front door into fresh air.I came back in real quickly, it was damp and chill outside;I was hungry, I was cold, but didn’t care.The fire had died, it smelt of soot; I felt empty and alone. The basket for the logs was empty, too.I figured they had gone to get some wood and they would phoneso I got a cloth to clean it first…and oddly, I still do.Headlights in the distance made moving picture showsas they flashed just briefly through the window pane;I remember looking out by standing on tip-toes,like a ballet-dancer getting used to pain. I sat there in the darkness, at least an hour went by, but time gets stretched upon the rack of years.I went upstairs to father’s room, the window was too high;I broke his pipe as I climbed up…I cried surprising tears.Climbing down I fell headlong and tore my best pink shirt,I’d more but this was longer than the rest.Once, I took my trousers off to pretend it was a skirt;mother smiled, observing that I didn’t look my best but father, he was furious, I remember what he said;he claimed I was no son of his and made me go to bed.I saw a light in mother’s room, faintly round the door.It gave me comfort knowing that she had her bed in there.My crying left me muddled, I had never cried before;it seemed so right, me in her bed, undressed, unwashed and bare. The light was from a drifting moon, lost in endless night,stark shadows leapt and lunged around the walls.I pulled her quilt right over me and hugged her pillow tight.I thought I heard her scream my name; a lonely Screech Owl’s call.I rarely feel as I felt then, strange thoughts are not strange now.Beneath the quilt, the warm soft quilt, I let my body go.The tears had gone but left me tired, I stayed awake somehow;if I lay still sensation died, I felt no arms, nor legs nor…no.Yet it was there, I knew it was, a part of me I could not bare;not bare to touch, not bare to see, not bare to show to anyone.The screaming owl reminded me that when I hid, I was not there;at least Edwin had gone away and I was happy on my own.The car turned quickly, gravel flew, I leapt out of the bed.Downstairs a door closed, mother’s steps, and then she called for me.I quickly tried to find my clothes, remembered what my father said,so on with mother’s silken robe, down the stairs in twos and threes,in to arms that held me tight, kisses showering from above,beating hearts that seemed too loud, like love played on two drums;breathlessly we staked our claims; she my mother, me her dove;my father’s words came back right then…I was no one’s son.In quiet times I live again, the night when mother softly saidthat I was leaving in the spring, a new life in a city school.I listened to her reasoning, and where she’d been with Uncle Ed,and how they’d argued over me, and why she thought she’d been a fool,and how she loved me, always would and things would turn out for the best.Her words would cut me through the years, but bleeding gave me peace.School was soon a memory; I hid myself, became depressed.My nicks and cuts were personal, I wanted out, I craved release.This body had to go away, it was not me, it was not mine…The friends I had were all fucked up, I told them that I was not me. I showed them all my scars of hate then cut me, cut me…one last time.Through lights that yellowed into black, I slipped away, and I was free.Why do I need to tell you this, the secret thing that no one knows? The surgeon told me he could help, a greater cut would let me bewhat I had always known inside, inside my head, beneath my clothes;The pain has gone and Edwin. too. He is no more…now I am she. Edwina. tectak2016[/i][/i][/i][/i][/i][/i]
