Emmie Untitled Poem #1

Don’t like him.
Voice
childlike
tired
resigned
hint of the woman she is
the woman she hides behind
hiding the small girl within
barricaded behind steel bars
no one allowed to get close
no one able to find the truth
held close to breast
eyes
bleak
terror filled
twisting hair between fingers
slumped down
fixated beyond this meeting.
Who don’t you like Emmie?
Emmellia
I have told you 
time and again
my name is not Emmie
it is and always has been
Emmellia.
Once you went by Emmie.
No more.
Who is it that you do not like Emmellia?
You know who.
And if he persists I will kill him.
Threats are serious Emmellia.
You cannot go around threatening the male staff.
They should learn to keep hands to themselves than.
More fantasies?
Truth.

Screams.
Raw.
Anguished.
Crawled along dark corridor
ringing off empty cells
abused
battered
cling to wall
cling to bear
cling to wildness
get close no one can.
Vacant.
Mouth open.
Soundless pain.
Beside body
orange crew cut
painted scarlet
fear
forever stains his face
so much blood
it is hard to tell
where his ends
and hers begins.
©Dec. 28/20
Picture via Pinterest

Silence Speaks

She sat.
Morose.
Petulant.
Like a small child though a woman grown.
Gnawing on a pen waiting for her to speak.
To begin to explain the sick desires and their beginnings.
She is nothing like any other patient here.
Days she is docile.
Days she rages and is violent.
To herself.
To others.
Eyes.
Cold emerald gaze when she levels it.
A sense of being weighed, counted and set in proper place takes seconds.
Aquiline nose takes from utter beauty.
Lips ruby red lush silken ready to be kissed.
Thick ombre hair cascades over shoulders twisted between slim fingers.
Sat as she is one could take her for adolescent.
Once stood there is no denial that she is woman.
All woman.
Slender build.
Breasts perfectly rounded.
Pert.
Hips curved softly.
The perfect figure.
Hourglass.
Time ticks seconds off.
Loud in this silence.
Shift.
Her head turns.
Leveling cold gaze over mine to the clock over the door.
Subtle change.
As time for her draws near.
Time to return.
Back to ancient cell.
Shrinking.
Drawing within.
Hair tumbles covering face.
Her demeanor
so sure
so controlled
becomes less
sure
becomes less
defiant
I see the child emerge just as the door clicks.
How was she today Doc?
The same.
Quiet.
Pensive.
One day she will speak.
You never know Doc…..
that one there
she carries dark secrets…..
secrets that would eat your soul.
Glittering rage
simmering
palpable
taken wrong
she waits
she knows
one day soon
will come the shit show.
©Dec. 19/20
Picture via Pinterest