The Attic


Somewhere inside the attic there lies a chair.

And when I go up, I still see grandma rocking there,

oblivious to my presence.

The chair sways rhythmically back and forth.

And it’s creaking becomes the lullaby,

that hushes the bags beneath my eyes.

Somewhere inside the attic there lies a colouring book.

The edges are worn, and the colours jut carelessly

over the thick black lines.

Crude letters lay scrambled amongst the pages.

A’s, M’s

and Y’s.

Somewhere inside the attic there lies a box.

It rattles and I watch, eyes paralyzed.

Somewhere inside of the box lies a toy bee made of wood.

She’s fixed onto a rope with big blue wheels to glide on.

I hear her still as she bumps down the hall

With the quiet girl to lead her.

Somewhere inside the attic the box starts changing form

It mirrors the trees and the glistening peaks

of the time worn Rockies.

As a child it screams! with its teddy bear,

and rushes to me for comfort.

As a fire it breathes on a cool winters night.

As a demon the box towers and bellows!

I reel in fear, on all four, on the floor

The box teases and taunts, and lures me through the dark

It promises me safety if I’ll succumb

If I will bow down

To be whole as one.

Inside the box tantalizes me!

It questions the very foundation of the sea!

And whether the sea has a right to be!

A right to be an equal of me!

It ROARS!

It thunders so loud that I heave it into the wall!

The loud crunch vibrating through the attics strong bones.

With all my might I scream!

I heave the box with all my force,

to decimate it,

To annihilate it! Mutilate it!

And slay it!

To just scratch...

I reach to touch the box

But the box changes form,

it flickers like a child's eye,

innocent bating lashes looking back at me

The eyes of question, “Why are you so mad at me?”

It remains untouched as I pant

bent over my aching shins.

****

Somewhere inside of the attic, there lies a colouring book

And I hear the quiet girl still,

as she creeps down the hall,

With blue ink spread between her finger tips.

Inside of the attic there lies a box,

one that whispers to me,

and knows my name well.

And somewhere, somewhere far away

In the white stretch mark stains of my memory,

There lies an attic.

#Poetry #Mentalillness #MetaphorAnalogy

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Victoria, BC, Canada

info@amyfrank.ca

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All Work © Amy Frank 2020