“Spoken”

This poem was originally published on The Pittsburgher’s predecessor, The Dog Door Cultural.

Consider this a letter to you

The male who wears what his mother likes

This is written for the girl

who cannot find it in herself to stand in the shower

to rid her hair of her grandfather’s cigarette.

This is addressed and stamped

to the grandmother who does not know who this girl is, that I am.

It is apparent to me that being pretentious for 18 years

was more important than hearing my voice.

This letter was jammed into a white envelope

and slapped in the face

With a five dollar bill and with a smack of her lips,

it was sealed.

This is for the kids who treat Sunday’s like Sacramento

and staring at those white, cyan clouds is God teasing us

of the Heaven we have never visited.

Consider these lyrics

Hell, consider me the singer.

As this is printed to the kids who walk the sidewalks home.

This is to the kids who do not only step over the cracks

although they could have broken their Mother’s back

for screaming and crying.

This is an intricate novel with a hard rock spine

accompanied by two paper blankets

that protect its deepest

darkest

Secrets.

And I will tell you that this is signed to the kids.

To the children who bite their nails,

the ones who chew their brittle fingers.

To the kids who ride their bicycles,

they will jump off into the grass

just to feel alive.

This is for the kids

who try to explain to their parents that they are hurting.

This is to the kids who are afraid of making them cry

the ones who kiss them goodnight

and wipe a tear from their eye.

To the kids who walk

in black and white

And I am sure they remember the words to the fight

that broke up a family.

Dinner continued,

this time in a cold

damp

Silence

even the radio could not possibly drown out.

So I ask you to consider this a biography.

A biography of a child

a child who painted a room dandelion yellow

in hopes of murdering the darkness.

A child who ripped down the blinds and opened all of the doors.

They so desperately wanted to allow some life

Where things never grew.

A smile is all they wished for a white daisy,

a song about something more.

Honey sweeter than sweetest from Burt’s Bees that lived in the trees

to praying on pews

Jesus please.

Consider this a 5000 word count essay

to be handed in by Tuesday and let me tell you,

the stress of yesterday

depreciates the best of me.

This is to the kids with Straight A’s

and to the kids with nothing at all

I see you.

A binder full of paper and a mind full of raw emotions

that make you want to split your ends

and hairspray your flowers just so they can enjoy January.

This is a kiss blown in the wind to be caught as a voice recording.

This is to the kids who see everything

yet they say nothing at all.

To the kids who love unconditionally

yet still manage to fall,

you will be 22 someday living with nothing or maybe an abundance of it all.

but I must tell you that this is all ahead of us

this plan that is destined for the rest of us

so please

consider this a letter to you. ▲

Julia Ferreira attends the University of Ottawa, majoring in Digital Journalism. Her writing inspiration comes primarily from memory: childhood memory and experiences she has endured.