Poem: Storyteller

An illustration I made for a children's book I was working on when I was about nine or ten.

 This was originally going to be a normal blog post, but after trying and failing several times to form my thoughts into paragraphs, I tried the ideas as a poem instead, and wrote this in one go.

~~~

When I was a kid,

I told stories

of an animal cracker cult.

Each animal was so excited to enter the sacred cave 

(my mouth)

to seek enlightenment in the depths of the earth 

(my stomach)

that they lined up to do so.

The crunching of my teeth was the sound of them 

walking down the stairs

seeking enlightenment 

in the depths of my stomach.

What can I say?

I am a storyteller.

When I was a kid,

I told stories

about how flexible and easy-going I was.

I'm just really spontaneous.

I'm a little OCD but fortunately people violate my boundaries all the time to fix that!

I'm overly sensitive because I get upset when people say things they know make me angry.

It's okay, I don't have the right to arrange my room the way I want.

Other people know me better than I know myself.

I don't know what's best. Just tell me what to do.

I'm obedient and quiet.

I'm not a tomboy.

When I was a teen,

I told stories

about what a good friend I was.

I am selfless.

I empty myself.

I do what I don't want to do,

because that's what good friends do.

My needs aren't important.

Jesus first, yourself last, and others in between!

Gut feelings lie to me.

My heart is desperately wicked and cannot be trusted.

I am suffering so much right now

which

makes

me

a

good

friend!

When I was an adult,

I told stories

about the stories I'd told.

I picked them apart and put them back together

and was angry,

was horrified.

These pieces were straining the edges of their narrative wires

bursting at the ends

bulging out

begging to be retold in a new way.

They unleashed as anger, 

blinding anger,

and then rage,

and then sadness,

and then compassion.

I took the pieces and held them gently,

wrapped them in burlap,

pieced them together in different narrative threads,

learned how to let them be what they are.

It hurt.

It hurt a lot.

But there is healing in new stories,

better stories.

There is healing in the search for truth.

The animal crackers didn't know that their enlightenment was death,

the unmaking of their doughy forms

into atoms for my body;

they didn't know it was destruction.

I didn't know that my stories were cages,

were breeding pits of viruses that wiped out so much

I hold dear.

But stories can break the cages

and blast away the sludge

and make something new. 

They are damnation.

They are salvation.

I eat animal crackers now and wonder what life would've been like

if I hadn't 

told

so

many

stories.

What can I say? 

I'm a storyteller.

~~~