Poem: Nom de Plume

Have you ever heard a story
from your past retold?
Details cut or embellished 
to please a broader audience 

They repaint the memory 
in sweet pastels vs primaries
moments that stomped and screamed
purple bruised in solitary 
are evaporated completely 

Cactuses replaced with daffodils 
mansions instead of factories 
details that can’t be replaced
are shredded like tortured paper 

The effect of rearranging 
collapses history into false memories 
it alters the insufferable past
with unintended irony
like choking on laughing gas 
over a minor cavity 

My memory used to be infallible
it was the reference section 
of a well-organized library
now it’s abysmally slower 
but I’m still aligning the facts
which puzzle piece together 
a masterpiece collage of knowing 

It disturbs my sense of space
of knowing wrong vs right
when well-intentioned people
reframe the murder mystery
into a romantic comedy 

Rearranging the furniture of time
silently plants a truth bomb 
inside my mind is spinning 
If I hear the lie 
enthusiastically said 
one more giggled time

God help me—-not lose my head
like a caged boxer
one two three knockout punches
that’s how it’ll go 
but only in a dream scenario 

My imagination is orphan bold
takes no prisoners
but in reality’s haze 
I’ll bite my throbbing tongue 
until it’s razored in flesh craters

I have to sacrifice the actual
to coexist
peacefully live 
not crash your deck 
of mishuffled cards

But the past isn’t just yours
to recreate in a toned down hue
a Martha Stewart stew 
of mutilated teeth
blessed by a wicked tooth fairy

Remake, remodel, desecrate 
the bloodstained carpet and drapes
call it a winestain of sweet grapes
throw a shag rug on top
as a band aid of maraschino cherries 

What was hilarious to you
was a nightmare to me
your reimagined glee
is an insult to believe 
how you’ve erased the pain
replaced the traumatic themes
with soap opera levity 

You’ve velveted the tragic scenes
with frilly silly 
candy corn hee haw ribbons 
corn cob muffins
drowning in saccharine 

I know why you chose
partial amnesia 
because that saved your psyche
You survived by recoding 
your brain to forget 
buffering the most difficult aspects
 
But I survived by whistleblowing
I trained my mind to memorize
lest I repeat the offense 
generationally that’s how
sins of the father spread 
until it’s reduced to nothing 

You were dutiful, ambitious 
I was relentlessly rebellious  
depressively going nowhere 
You were blindly loyal 
but to a codependent fault

I was a traitor
an adult runaway
an oxymoron literally
forever pointing my bruised fingers
and hating myself for not
cutting myself to fit in the box

Writing was my pathway 
to heal and release 
but it’s an excruciatingly 
slow-motion process
Truth was my compass 
to unfurl my grief
but it’s a marathon not a sprint 

My life evidenced 
the scars and the marks
that you’ve erased from your heart
I wrote all the tormented 
secrets down
carved them into the shape
of a pearled crown
I journaled with a pen not a pencil
there’s no way to erase 
the bludgeoning depths of ache

I know why you do what you do
but do you?
Denial was your meal
your endless fuel
it’s what kept you going
alive and functioning 
not caged in a mental hospital 

But you still don’t have a clue
about why I was so intent 
on showing the brutal truth 
it’s immutable
all-knowing 
it’s not a bandage
it’s not a cover-up
it’s not a shut up

History might be retold 
remolded by the victors
but truth outwits
the blind and even Time itself
Eventually someday 
all will be revealed 
all the dross of pretend will melt
in a sunrise of revelation

Justified tears will overflow
waterfalls of mountain temple snow 
long awaited springtime
foreshadowed in the book of time
Every silenced moment 
will shine rainbow halo golden

I don’t write this poem 
from hatred or spite 
I love you now and always 
but I have to fight 
for what’s right
I write to balm my frustration 
that for your sake 
and for compassion’s grace

I choose silence to your face
not what’s factual
because the truth that heals me
hurts you irrevocably 
and you’ve already been through 
too much layered undeserved trauma 
What would I gain to correct you
but a brief, meaningless victory

The story of my life
is basically all here
encapsulated clear
in a typewritten tear
I know what I know 
anonymously 
I am a living nom de plume

I don’t pretend away 
the stain of pain
but I let others rest
in the nested comfort 
of their chosen truth

Sometimes silence
is that invisible gift
mysteriously felt 
undervalued 
unappreciated
self-restricted
evidenced only by God