I had this thing published to a poetry anthology in fifth grade.
I'm from a small town in New Hampshire. I wore floral dresses to school every day. My teeth grew like arrows in all directions. We moved to Virginia and my head was spinning. I wrote that poem in Colorado.
The children from my elementary school years here in Denver were different from the quaker babies of my hometown. They smoked cigarettes in fourth grade. Most times, the apartment complex was a hell hole in terms of friendship. Excluding a random beautiful girl named Julie, the other kids were trashy and dysfunctional. I was a vulnerable small town kid. They chased me down the sidewalk with magnifying glasses.
They locked me alone in a room full of bibles and blared Korn and Rammstein because it made me cry. I clawed at the door and begged them to let me out like I was locked up with a killer. That music terrified me to my soul. I was still listening to cassettes of the Troll dolls singing "Pretty Woman" and "Kokomo."
I started expressing myself in third grade with drawings of dark castles. All this fear was welling inside me and I had to let it out. I realized my hands were inadequate. By the fifth grade I was half-atheist. I strongly doubted Jesus, and I was petrified of going to hell. I was really angry and I wrote a poem about a white light.
I started expressing myself in third grade with drawings of dark castles. All this fear was welling inside me and I had to let it out. I realized my hands were inadequate. By the fifth grade I was half-atheist. I strongly doubted Jesus, and I was petrified of going to hell. I was really angry and I wrote a poem about a white light.
If one of my friends were to lock me in a room now and blare Tool on the other side of the door... I don't know what I would do. I was going to say "call for help" but that feels melodramatic. I guess I would just wait patiently and think about the Schism music video, and all the ways I would kill my friends with the pink lemonade can in my hand.
