Black waves swallow me
Joy diluted down to apathy
It sickens me
That I'm so sick
Won't someone help me help myself
Before I end my life too quick
Drowning in my sorrow
I don't think I'll live to see tomorrow
I'm judged before you even know me
Tattooed, branded all unholy
Sick, disgusting, twisted
I'm so broken, can you fix it?
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The Visit
She looks pale under the fluorescent lights
all translucent and ghost like.
Eyes distant, glassy, vacant
a porcelain doll who's lost her charm.
Her creativity ran like wet paint, leaking down the drain in the floor
Drip, drip, drip go the droplets
leaving but a shell behind, so dry and brittle a breath could shatter it.
Her knotted hand digs in a hand woven basket for something
Digging mindlessly, searching deperately for her sanity
but the basket is empty.
An eerie grin creeps across her cheeks, scarred from the carnage
Dreaming, she must be dreaming of the horror she witnessed so long ago
but won't ever forget.
It's the only thing she seems to remember now.
She's all alone
I know she can't feel my presence
she didn't even know I was there.
So I back out slowly, silently
and shut the cell door.
all translucent and ghost like.
Eyes distant, glassy, vacant
a porcelain doll who's lost her charm.
Her creativity ran like wet paint, leaking down the drain in the floor
Drip, drip, drip go the droplets
leaving but a shell behind, so dry and brittle a breath could shatter it.
Her knotted hand digs in a hand woven basket for something
Digging mindlessly, searching deperately for her sanity
but the basket is empty.
An eerie grin creeps across her cheeks, scarred from the carnage
Dreaming, she must be dreaming of the horror she witnessed so long ago
but won't ever forget.
It's the only thing she seems to remember now.
She's all alone
I know she can't feel my presence
she didn't even know I was there.
So I back out slowly, silently
and shut the cell door.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Mistress of Darkness
A companion by nighttime
I am alone by dawn
I ache for a perpetual lover,
not just one who fades as the sun
brightens.
This night hawk has me by my throat
Mesmerized by her
every move
every touch
Every whisper is magnified by the darkness
I want to strip her of this protective cover
Hold her up to the sunlight and
examine her, like a
gem.
I want to know her, marvel in her complexity
be in her presence, look in her eyes.
The temptation is driving me crazy
I want to tie her to my bedpost
and wait for the light.
I am alone by dawn
I ache for a perpetual lover,
not just one who fades as the sun
brightens.
This night hawk has me by my throat
Mesmerized by her
every move
every touch
Every whisper is magnified by the darkness
I want to strip her of this protective cover
Hold her up to the sunlight and
examine her, like a
gem.
I want to know her, marvel in her complexity
be in her presence, look in her eyes.
The temptation is driving me crazy
I want to tie her to my bedpost
and wait for the light.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
A God, Your God
Picket signs strangle me
Choking out my sanity
Justify your hate for me, speak for this God
You're replacing.
This mess that you're creating
Is irreversible and destructive
By any means you've taken something holy
And made it shit.
No wonder we don't believe in God
No wonder we can't see through the fog
No wonder we don't believe in a God
Who doesn't give a fuck about us.
Blood spilled by the tonne
In his name, the holy one
That you all so adore.
God is loving, just and tolerant
He opens his arms wide with a kind smile and says,
"Love your neighbors...
except if they're different."
No wonder we don't believe in God
No wonder we can't see through the fog
No wonder we don't believe in a God
Who doesn't give a fuck about us.
So burn that flag and spread that hate
Bind me up and stone me at the stake
But I don't take this injustice in silence
No more fucking violence
In the name of a God
Who supposedly loves us all.
No wonder we don't believe in God
No wonder we can't see through the fog
No wonder we don't believe in a God
Who doesn't give a fuck about us.
Who doesn't give a fuck about us.
And he'll never give a fuck about us.
Choking out my sanity
Justify your hate for me, speak for this God
You're replacing.
This mess that you're creating
Is irreversible and destructive
By any means you've taken something holy
And made it shit.
No wonder we don't believe in God
No wonder we can't see through the fog
No wonder we don't believe in a God
Who doesn't give a fuck about us.
Blood spilled by the tonne
In his name, the holy one
That you all so adore.
God is loving, just and tolerant
He opens his arms wide with a kind smile and says,
"Love your neighbors...
except if they're different."
No wonder we don't believe in God
No wonder we can't see through the fog
No wonder we don't believe in a God
Who doesn't give a fuck about us.
So burn that flag and spread that hate
Bind me up and stone me at the stake
But I don't take this injustice in silence
No more fucking violence
In the name of a God
Who supposedly loves us all.
No wonder we don't believe in God
No wonder we can't see through the fog
No wonder we don't believe in a God
Who doesn't give a fuck about us.
Who doesn't give a fuck about us.
And he'll never give a fuck about us.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Welcome to High School
He lifts weights
Until his bones ache
They crack but he keeps going
Don’t stop. You’re so close.
He’s sick of the whispers,
And the bruises on his shoulders
From their prodding fingers
Malicious lips asking
The same stupid questions.
“Kid, are those your ribs?”
She gags
Until her throat burns
Her stomach shrivels up
Don’t stop. Just two more pounds.
Then you’ll be everything.
She’s sick of the taunts,
And the notes on her locker
Malicious lips asking
The same stupid questions.
“Eww, why does she even try?”
She cuts her skin
Until it barely resembles an arm
Her face is pale but she keeps going
Don’t stop. It almost doesn’t hurt anymore.
She’s so sick of the lies
And their gawks and stares at the boy in girl’s clothes
Malicious lips asking
The same stupid questions.
“Oh my God…what is it?”
He stands at the edge
Foot so close he could slip
His heart pounds in his chest
Don’t stop. Just another foot
And it’ll all be over.
He’s so sick of the judgment
And the words carved into his chest
Malicious lips repeating
The same stupid phrase.
“Faggot.”
Malicious lips repeating,
"Welcome to high school:
the best years of your lives."
Until his bones ache
They crack but he keeps going
Don’t stop. You’re so close.
He’s sick of the whispers,
And the bruises on his shoulders
From their prodding fingers
Malicious lips asking
The same stupid questions.
“Kid, are those your ribs?”
She gags
Until her throat burns
Her stomach shrivels up
Don’t stop. Just two more pounds.
Then you’ll be everything.
She’s sick of the taunts,
And the notes on her locker
Malicious lips asking
The same stupid questions.
“Eww, why does she even try?”
She cuts her skin
Until it barely resembles an arm
Her face is pale but she keeps going
Don’t stop. It almost doesn’t hurt anymore.
She’s so sick of the lies
And their gawks and stares at the boy in girl’s clothes
Malicious lips asking
The same stupid questions.
“Oh my God…what is it?”
He stands at the edge
Foot so close he could slip
His heart pounds in his chest
Don’t stop. Just another foot
And it’ll all be over.
He’s so sick of the judgment
And the words carved into his chest
Malicious lips repeating
The same stupid phrase.
“Faggot.”
Malicious lips repeating,
"Welcome to high school:
the best years of your lives."
Friday, April 24, 2009
Like Good Friends
Is it possible
to feel alone and powerful
yet so fucking cold
and lonely all at once?
Can I do this
can I go through this again?
Strapped down, forced to watch
The movie that plays behind my eyelids
every time I fuck.
Let me go!
It all hap pend so fucking long ago
I know I'm all grown up
but when I'm trapped beneath him
I feel like a little girl again.
It's not you, it's me.
No really, it's me.
It's me and my sadistic,
fucked up memories.
I want so badly to be loved.
I ache to be held as I lay here crying
My heart is bleeding on the floor
yet no one seems to notice.
The louder I scream the more they turn away
The veins are popping in my neck
but my screams must be silent
and frankly I'm sick of trying.
I'm sick of fucking crying.
Every time I see her
the whore that I've become
I want to put my head through my mirror.
Like currency I've passed myself from owner to owner
Unaware that I had a say in any of it
Although I acted it out, it was never what I wanted.
Please,
I wish I could make you understand
But how the hell do you ask for these things?
I just want you to hold me,
make me feel loved again.
I just want to be close to you
Like good friends...
to feel alone and powerful
yet so fucking cold
and lonely all at once?
Can I do this
can I go through this again?
Strapped down, forced to watch
The movie that plays behind my eyelids
every time I fuck.
Let me go!
It all hap pend so fucking long ago
I know I'm all grown up
but when I'm trapped beneath him
I feel like a little girl again.
It's not you, it's me.
No really, it's me.
It's me and my sadistic,
fucked up memories.
I want so badly to be loved.
I ache to be held as I lay here crying
My heart is bleeding on the floor
yet no one seems to notice.
The louder I scream the more they turn away
The veins are popping in my neck
but my screams must be silent
and frankly I'm sick of trying.
I'm sick of fucking crying.
Every time I see her
the whore that I've become
I want to put my head through my mirror.
Like currency I've passed myself from owner to owner
Unaware that I had a say in any of it
Although I acted it out, it was never what I wanted.
Please,
I wish I could make you understand
But how the hell do you ask for these things?
I just want you to hold me,
make me feel loved again.
I just want to be close to you
Like good friends...
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Eve
Their footsteps shatter the silence that keeps me at peace. I hold her close to me still, so close I can smell her tears as I weave my face into her hair. Her breath is tattered against my neck, her rhythm-less sobs are the outward interpretation of the war drum that is my heart. If this is how we shall die, it will not be in vain.
Thump, thump, thump is the never-ending taboo that tells our doom. My heartbeat has slowed to a pace barely above comatose; an eerie calmness washes over me. But not Eve. I still feel her frightened hand gripping mine with incredible strength, even as I recall this many years later.
Bang, bang, bang! Sang the drums of the gallows. We knew what happened to women and men like us, outcasts and invalids alike. I did not flinch when my ears were pierced with Edwards terrible wails, nor did I flinch when the SS lowered his pistol to his head and it detonate. Yomiv quivers at Edward’s side, howling his discontent. This is what the war as made us.
This is a sport to them, a game. But this is no game to Eve, or I, or any other who knows the pain of persecution because of who they love. I hear the screams of women that they have found and I feel the bile rise in my throat. My only thoughts are of Eve. Instinct forces me to hold her tighter. It does not matter if I make it; my only thoughts are of Eve.
I count the steps their footsteps destroy. Oh, such I noise! Their heavy boots rain judgment that will be forever etched in my memory, even as I lay inches from death.
One, two, three…
Their footsteps sped up.
My mind freezes over, numb. I understand that there is no point in running, that they will find us. They will always find us.
Four, five…
I whisper, “It’s going to be alright, Eve. I love you.”
They scale the final steps, pounding ahead toward our closed door. Within seconds the door burst open and SS suits spill in. They’re calling us names, spitting on us, powerful hands grabbing at my Eve. She can only lay there, petrified, unmovable, barely breathing.
I lay next to her, suddenly frozen with fear and unable to look away as I watched him remove the gun from his coat. I will never forget the moment she looked up at me, her eyes glazed, distant still. Her mouth opened to speak and then…
Boom.
I felt my heart break completely, a hurricane of torment engulfing me and extinguishing all will to exist. Even now as I sit here many years later, surrounded by the bustle of an unfamiliar world, I can fall back into the memory of Eve’s arms and remember how safe I felt, even if the very air we breathed was shrapnel.
Sometimes when I sit very still and close my eyes, I can inhale and breathe in the scent of her shampoo. I hold her favorite blanket in my hands, clutching it close to my heart and I remember her warm smile as she placed it on my shoulders. But I will never have the joy of touching her skin, or kissing her, or comforting her when she cries. Never again will I blessed enough to dance with her or hear her voice.
I lost my Eve, my only love, to hate. Hate is bitter and jealous. Hate knows no compassion and has no boundaries. It cannot be reasoned with. Hate is that which deprives the world of all that is good and pure. It is because of hate that I shall cry every day I wake in remembrance of my love once lost and whisper the final words I ever spoke to her to be greeted with silence.
“I love you.”
The memories of a love once lost from a woman in Poland, circa 1942.
Thump, thump, thump is the never-ending taboo that tells our doom. My heartbeat has slowed to a pace barely above comatose; an eerie calmness washes over me. But not Eve. I still feel her frightened hand gripping mine with incredible strength, even as I recall this many years later.
Bang, bang, bang! Sang the drums of the gallows. We knew what happened to women and men like us, outcasts and invalids alike. I did not flinch when my ears were pierced with Edwards terrible wails, nor did I flinch when the SS lowered his pistol to his head and it detonate. Yomiv quivers at Edward’s side, howling his discontent. This is what the war as made us.
This is a sport to them, a game. But this is no game to Eve, or I, or any other who knows the pain of persecution because of who they love. I hear the screams of women that they have found and I feel the bile rise in my throat. My only thoughts are of Eve. Instinct forces me to hold her tighter. It does not matter if I make it; my only thoughts are of Eve.
I count the steps their footsteps destroy. Oh, such I noise! Their heavy boots rain judgment that will be forever etched in my memory, even as I lay inches from death.
One, two, three…
Their footsteps sped up.
My mind freezes over, numb. I understand that there is no point in running, that they will find us. They will always find us.
Four, five…
I whisper, “It’s going to be alright, Eve. I love you.”
They scale the final steps, pounding ahead toward our closed door. Within seconds the door burst open and SS suits spill in. They’re calling us names, spitting on us, powerful hands grabbing at my Eve. She can only lay there, petrified, unmovable, barely breathing.
I lay next to her, suddenly frozen with fear and unable to look away as I watched him remove the gun from his coat. I will never forget the moment she looked up at me, her eyes glazed, distant still. Her mouth opened to speak and then…
Boom.
I felt my heart break completely, a hurricane of torment engulfing me and extinguishing all will to exist. Even now as I sit here many years later, surrounded by the bustle of an unfamiliar world, I can fall back into the memory of Eve’s arms and remember how safe I felt, even if the very air we breathed was shrapnel.
Sometimes when I sit very still and close my eyes, I can inhale and breathe in the scent of her shampoo. I hold her favorite blanket in my hands, clutching it close to my heart and I remember her warm smile as she placed it on my shoulders. But I will never have the joy of touching her skin, or kissing her, or comforting her when she cries. Never again will I blessed enough to dance with her or hear her voice.
I lost my Eve, my only love, to hate. Hate is bitter and jealous. Hate knows no compassion and has no boundaries. It cannot be reasoned with. Hate is that which deprives the world of all that is good and pure. It is because of hate that I shall cry every day I wake in remembrance of my love once lost and whisper the final words I ever spoke to her to be greeted with silence.
“I love you.”
The memories of a love once lost from a woman in Poland, circa 1942.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
My heart, it's breaking.
I pretend that I don't notice you
but I do.
I do.
And I notice that your arm touched mine
and I stay cool.
Stay cool.
You hug me tight and I never wanna let go
but I do.
I do.
Because you'll never feel the way for me
that I feel for you.
For you.
but I do.
I do.
And I notice that your arm touched mine
and I stay cool.
Stay cool.
You hug me tight and I never wanna let go
but I do.
I do.
Because you'll never feel the way for me
that I feel for you.
For you.
The Day of Silence
Please participate in the Day of Silence and speak out again LGBT hate in our schools.
What will you do to end the silence?
April 17, 2009
With Love, From Gaza
There's a little boy
In a heap of rubble
Crying for the bombs to stop
People gather
Holding one another
Praying for the madness to end
These children
These children
These children
Poor forsaken little souls
These children
These children
These children
Where they’ll go
No one knows
Shards of broken glass
Litter stranded dirt roads
Lined with all the fallen men
Uniforms salute
With gun wielding fingertips
Arms aimed at the opposite flag
They'll never think of
These children
These children
These children
Poor forsaken little souls
These children
These children
These children
Where they’ll go
No one knows
In a heap of rubble
Crying for the bombs to stop
People gather
Holding one another
Praying for the madness to end
These children
These children
These children
Poor forsaken little souls
These children
These children
These children
Where they’ll go
No one knows
Shards of broken glass
Litter stranded dirt roads
Lined with all the fallen men
Uniforms salute
With gun wielding fingertips
Arms aimed at the opposite flag
They'll never think of
These children
These children
These children
Poor forsaken little souls
These children
These children
These children
Where they’ll go
No one knows
My Taste of Brown Sugar (a not-so-fictional short story)
I'll never forget the moments we shared hidden from the world in our little make-shift tent of sheets around her bed. Her lips grazed mine. My heart sped up. I lay beside her, hands exploring her. Her skin was so soft, delicious, inviting...the color of brown sugar. Her native beauty almost possessed me as I longed to know what she tasted like.
Another kiss. Our hands move faster, frenzied to explore each other where we had never dared to touch before. She was my first taste of pleasure, my first girlfriend, my first lover. She brought out the brave side in me, always testing boundaries and pushing limits. What had started as a few innocent kisses grew to much, much more.
Her hands reached for the buttons of my jeans. I was excited, kissing her deeper as I unbuttoned her shirt. She gave me pleasure I never thought possible as she smiled, her fingers tip-toeing down my chest.
I had always wanted to please her, to satisfy her, but she was satisfied just seeing the smile on my face when she came up to kiss me. Touch after touch and kiss after kiss lead to a whirlwind of bliss, snowballing passionately until it sprawled out of control. Tingles reached my toes then rushed up to my cheeks. She lay next to me, dark eyes looking past, looking into my soul, searching for hints she had done good. She didn't need to look far. She was all I wanted.
I'd love to say we had a loving and long-lasting relationship but that would be fiction. We were young, and emotions toyed with our actions, causing us to choose drama over the passion we had, even for only thirteen.
Even though she's somewhere I'm not sure of, I'll never forget her. I'll never forget the make-shift tent that changed the reason I love who I do. I will always remember holding her hand as we walked down the hallway in middle school, as if no one else in the whole world mattered.
We've grown up, grown apart, changed. And even though my heart is committed to the man of my dreams, I will never forget her, my taste of brown sugar.
Another kiss. Our hands move faster, frenzied to explore each other where we had never dared to touch before. She was my first taste of pleasure, my first girlfriend, my first lover. She brought out the brave side in me, always testing boundaries and pushing limits. What had started as a few innocent kisses grew to much, much more.
Her hands reached for the buttons of my jeans. I was excited, kissing her deeper as I unbuttoned her shirt. She gave me pleasure I never thought possible as she smiled, her fingers tip-toeing down my chest.
I had always wanted to please her, to satisfy her, but she was satisfied just seeing the smile on my face when she came up to kiss me. Touch after touch and kiss after kiss lead to a whirlwind of bliss, snowballing passionately until it sprawled out of control. Tingles reached my toes then rushed up to my cheeks. She lay next to me, dark eyes looking past, looking into my soul, searching for hints she had done good. She didn't need to look far. She was all I wanted.
I'd love to say we had a loving and long-lasting relationship but that would be fiction. We were young, and emotions toyed with our actions, causing us to choose drama over the passion we had, even for only thirteen.
Even though she's somewhere I'm not sure of, I'll never forget her. I'll never forget the make-shift tent that changed the reason I love who I do. I will always remember holding her hand as we walked down the hallway in middle school, as if no one else in the whole world mattered.
We've grown up, grown apart, changed. And even though my heart is committed to the man of my dreams, I will never forget her, my taste of brown sugar.
"Night" by Elie Wiesel: Final Chapter
A note from the author: This was an English 20-1 novel study project. I was asked to create a final chapter to my chosen novel, "Night" by Elie Wiesel. This project is not for monetary gain.
I awake in a cold sweat. Memories haunt me, forcing images to the front of my eyes. They're so wicked, evil beyond comparison. Are these truly my memories? Vivid pictures of thousands upon thousands of prisoners, forced to dig shallow graves, their own graves?
A line of striped clothed skeletons leading to a massive oven, then submissively thrown in. No, this can't be true. I saw my father's eyes, shallow and deprived of life, begging for water, for mercy. His last word was my name and I could do nothing but stand there. Yes, these were my memories, the ones that have haunted me and claimed my childhood.
It was only months ago that I was liberated from Buchenwald and brought here, to an already over-populated orphanage in France. I slept in a room shared by a dozen or more other children, all fast asleep in their beds. I must have caused a stir when I woke though because Madame Reverie was bustling into the room, rousing many of the children from their sleep.
"What's going on, Madame?" Some were asking. I could barely understand them; my French was limited to short conversation. She responded with something abrupt and came to my bedside.
"Elie, dear." She whispered in German. She was the only nun that could speak it in the entire orphanage. "What has you awake? Bad dream?"
I wasn't sure if I should talk to her about it. She knew I was one of the liberated children, but no one had ever asked me what happened to me in that period of darkness that changed my life. My arms crossed tightly across my chest and I looked away. "I don't want to speak of it." She wouldn't, couldn't, understand. What could she offer me, pity? Rest assured, I have seen enough of that.
She examined me closely, those deep brown eyes searching intently for truth. Finding none, she nodded and left but not without the order to call for her if anything was needed.
I lay my head back down on the pillow; fighting fitfully for sleep, finding it hard when the hard beds remind me painfully of the bunks in Buchenwald, the one I lay in while my father was stolen to the crematory, possibly still alive...
I rose and dressed in the morning, meeting the other children downstairs for breakfast. There were many of us, but food wasn't scarce. I thanked God for the food before delving into my eggs and sausage.
Time passed in a wonderfully mundane manner in the orphanage and before I knew it, fall turned to winter and Christmas was upon us once again. I was thankful to be blessed with a safe and warm place to spend the holidays, but I didn't feel much like celebrating without my father. In a month it would be a year ago that he died. Since my liberation, I have been able to cry, and I have cried many times mourning the loss of my father. Human emotion does not come easily anymore though, every tear and smile feels painfully forced. I pray this will pass with time.
One day in early spring, I was laying in bed reading a history novel when Madame Reverie swept in, a thick, yellow envelope in her hands. "Here son, this is for you." She said as she passed this mysterious piece of mail to me. I thought I saw a smile hidden behind her stern eyes. But why? My curiosity intensified and I opened it gingerly. It appeared to be a letter. I looked up to Madame Reverie and she nodded humbly the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
I unfolded the paper with shaky hands. The breath was taken from my throat in an instant, joy flooding through my fingertips and up to my brain as I read the first two words:
"Dear brother".
I read on.
"Dear brother,
It has been over two years since I've seen you, Mother, Father and Tzipora. I can hardly believe that I have the blessed chance to write to you. My heart is full of hope.
When you were deported to Auschwitz, I lost contact with you. Everyday I lived in fear that I may never hear my family's voices again, never smell the scent of Mother's hair or hear Father preach to us about the Promised Land. And Tzipora, my beautiful baby sister, how I would miss playing dolls with her.
I heard news of your liberation when I received a telephone call from the orphanage you are staying at." (How long ago had they contacted her? Months, perhaps? Without telling me?) "I knew I had to get in touch with you. I have heard no word from Mother or Father, I hope you can tell me at least a little." (My heart filled with sorrow. How could I bring myself to tell her?)
"Hilda and I are quite well, she's living here in France too. I will tell you more when we meet.
I must go. Please write back or telephone me as soon as you can. The orphanage knows my telephone number. Take care, little brother. I love you and miss you.
Yours truly,
Bea."
I held the letter against my chest, my eyes full with tears. My sister had survived! Oh, how I couldn't wait to talk to her, hear her voice and see her smile. I ran like a wild animal down the stairs, my heart pounding in my ears. Down, down, down the stairs, across the hall and into the administration office. I burst inside so abruptly I'm sure I scared the secretary half out of her wits. But Madame Reverie, who was seated in the corner, understood. She handed me the receiver and dialed the phone number for me. I held my breath.
Ring, ring. I hope she's home! Ring, ring.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a soft, female voice answered.
"Hello?"
My voice shook with emotion. "H-hello. Is this Bea Wiesel?"
"Yes, this is I." Her voice sounded confused.
"It's me," I cried, barely able to hold back the tears. "It's me, Elie."
It was then, at that very moment that my perception shifted, the heaviness was lifted and I was free, for the first time since night fell.
"Oh, it's you, dear brother! I love you."
"I love you too." I choked.
My heart burst with happiness and my face cracked into a genuine smile.Yes, I think I was finally beginning to see the light.
I awake in a cold sweat. Memories haunt me, forcing images to the front of my eyes. They're so wicked, evil beyond comparison. Are these truly my memories? Vivid pictures of thousands upon thousands of prisoners, forced to dig shallow graves, their own graves?
A line of striped clothed skeletons leading to a massive oven, then submissively thrown in. No, this can't be true. I saw my father's eyes, shallow and deprived of life, begging for water, for mercy. His last word was my name and I could do nothing but stand there. Yes, these were my memories, the ones that have haunted me and claimed my childhood.
It was only months ago that I was liberated from Buchenwald and brought here, to an already over-populated orphanage in France. I slept in a room shared by a dozen or more other children, all fast asleep in their beds. I must have caused a stir when I woke though because Madame Reverie was bustling into the room, rousing many of the children from their sleep.
"What's going on, Madame?" Some were asking. I could barely understand them; my French was limited to short conversation. She responded with something abrupt and came to my bedside.
"Elie, dear." She whispered in German. She was the only nun that could speak it in the entire orphanage. "What has you awake? Bad dream?"
I wasn't sure if I should talk to her about it. She knew I was one of the liberated children, but no one had ever asked me what happened to me in that period of darkness that changed my life. My arms crossed tightly across my chest and I looked away. "I don't want to speak of it." She wouldn't, couldn't, understand. What could she offer me, pity? Rest assured, I have seen enough of that.
She examined me closely, those deep brown eyes searching intently for truth. Finding none, she nodded and left but not without the order to call for her if anything was needed.
I lay my head back down on the pillow; fighting fitfully for sleep, finding it hard when the hard beds remind me painfully of the bunks in Buchenwald, the one I lay in while my father was stolen to the crematory, possibly still alive...
I rose and dressed in the morning, meeting the other children downstairs for breakfast. There were many of us, but food wasn't scarce. I thanked God for the food before delving into my eggs and sausage.
Time passed in a wonderfully mundane manner in the orphanage and before I knew it, fall turned to winter and Christmas was upon us once again. I was thankful to be blessed with a safe and warm place to spend the holidays, but I didn't feel much like celebrating without my father. In a month it would be a year ago that he died. Since my liberation, I have been able to cry, and I have cried many times mourning the loss of my father. Human emotion does not come easily anymore though, every tear and smile feels painfully forced. I pray this will pass with time.
One day in early spring, I was laying in bed reading a history novel when Madame Reverie swept in, a thick, yellow envelope in her hands. "Here son, this is for you." She said as she passed this mysterious piece of mail to me. I thought I saw a smile hidden behind her stern eyes. But why? My curiosity intensified and I opened it gingerly. It appeared to be a letter. I looked up to Madame Reverie and she nodded humbly the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
I unfolded the paper with shaky hands. The breath was taken from my throat in an instant, joy flooding through my fingertips and up to my brain as I read the first two words:
"Dear brother".
I read on.
"Dear brother,
It has been over two years since I've seen you, Mother, Father and Tzipora. I can hardly believe that I have the blessed chance to write to you. My heart is full of hope.
When you were deported to Auschwitz, I lost contact with you. Everyday I lived in fear that I may never hear my family's voices again, never smell the scent of Mother's hair or hear Father preach to us about the Promised Land. And Tzipora, my beautiful baby sister, how I would miss playing dolls with her.
I heard news of your liberation when I received a telephone call from the orphanage you are staying at." (How long ago had they contacted her? Months, perhaps? Without telling me?) "I knew I had to get in touch with you. I have heard no word from Mother or Father, I hope you can tell me at least a little." (My heart filled with sorrow. How could I bring myself to tell her?)
"Hilda and I are quite well, she's living here in France too. I will tell you more when we meet.
I must go. Please write back or telephone me as soon as you can. The orphanage knows my telephone number. Take care, little brother. I love you and miss you.
Yours truly,
Bea."
I held the letter against my chest, my eyes full with tears. My sister had survived! Oh, how I couldn't wait to talk to her, hear her voice and see her smile. I ran like a wild animal down the stairs, my heart pounding in my ears. Down, down, down the stairs, across the hall and into the administration office. I burst inside so abruptly I'm sure I scared the secretary half out of her wits. But Madame Reverie, who was seated in the corner, understood. She handed me the receiver and dialed the phone number for me. I held my breath.
Ring, ring. I hope she's home! Ring, ring.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a soft, female voice answered.
"Hello?"
My voice shook with emotion. "H-hello. Is this Bea Wiesel?"
"Yes, this is I." Her voice sounded confused.
"It's me," I cried, barely able to hold back the tears. "It's me, Elie."
It was then, at that very moment that my perception shifted, the heaviness was lifted and I was free, for the first time since night fell.
"Oh, it's you, dear brother! I love you."
"I love you too." I choked.
My heart burst with happiness and my face cracked into a genuine smile.Yes, I think I was finally beginning to see the light.
In Loving Memory
We. Will. Never. Forget.
Brandon Teena
Born
December 12, 1972
Died
December 31, 1993, twenty one years old.
"The only abnormality is the incapacity to love."
Anais Nin
Matthew Shepard
Born
December 1, 1976
Died
October 12, 1998, twenty one years old.
Mama...
A new word
A cry from deep within her womb
Her seed thirsts for love
And longs for things he's not sure are real
His hunger for his father grows deeper
As he curls up, bruised like his mama
Wondering
So curious
As to who would turn their backs on them
So many questions he longs to ask
Ready to pour from his tiny lips
Like the rain that chills his mama's skin
Cold and unprotected
Weak with betrayal
He closes his eyes
He wants to scream
Of how he loves his mama
But all that can be heard
Is a cry from deep within her womb.
A cry from deep within her womb
Her seed thirsts for love
And longs for things he's not sure are real
His hunger for his father grows deeper
As he curls up, bruised like his mama
Wondering
So curious
As to who would turn their backs on them
So many questions he longs to ask
Ready to pour from his tiny lips
Like the rain that chills his mama's skin
Cold and unprotected
Weak with betrayal
He closes his eyes
He wants to scream
Of how he loves his mama
But all that can be heard
Is a cry from deep within her womb.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)