we carry the hurt in our hearts,
swallowing it every time our
because we know we can’t afford
the luxury of becoming undone.
we sow the barren lands,
waiting hopefully that there
just might be something other
than dread to harvest;
but you had other plans.
you reaped each of our
moving on to the next
when there was nothing
left for us.
maybe it was out of hunger,
or maybe someone never
thought you how to sow
your own lands.
your world shatters when you learn
the thief is a neighbour, your stomach
churns itself in disgust, opening
a black hole of worry that will
never subside. it consumes you,
but you learn to slowly ignore it.
when you tire of our harvests,
you stalk your next victim,
grooming us to not heed
their calls for help, relying
on their shame to keep them
but not this time.
you were caught,
and even then,
keeps us quiet.
so you pull away and
lurk the fields once-more.
to the next victim that
finds this: i'm sorry.
i'm sorry that i could
not do what was necessary.
i could not slay our shared
there is no survival here.
there is no room for growth,
the sun was bled dry.
we are the unwilling participants
of the god of carange’s folie a plusieurs.
How can one have words? I want to keep reading this, over and over, because there is such depth in your words and I keep finding new meaning in them.
This piece was consistent in its imagery, without being too weighed down by it. And the idea behind being harvested, what I assume your dreams and aspirations, hollowed out... that is chilling. A thief, indeed.
"there is no survival here.
there is no room for growth,
the sun was bled dry."
- My favorites lines by far, this is almost read as an assertion, and the sun being bled dry as proof. It also felt very apocalyptic to me, and only highlighting the desolation.
You talking to the "next victim", acknowledging the impact of this demon on the both of you, and the aftermath of what I perceive to be a trauma... it's all so isolating. Especially when you mention shame, because shame can make you feel like you have been stripped of a voice. That you cannot carry on.
Interesting line of French at the end - "madness to many"?
This piece resonated with me on the level of depression or mental illness being personified into this ravenous monster that will stop at nothing. It empties you out until you only have dread. Nothing else can be harvested, the gifts/fruits of hope, anything you look forward to, is destroyed. It will stop at nothing to devour you.
I keep coming back to the first stanza, the truth of how much we carry in our hearts. How heavy it is yet how we feel we cannot break down because others depend on us, others need us at least trying. So we keep carrying this hurt, unable to bury it or transfer it elsewhere, and it continues to leave us drained and continues to remind us of the void.
Added to my favorites. I don't have more words at the time but this poem of yours, this one truly may be my favorite.
<3 Thank you! It took a lot of me to write this since it's personal, I sort of amalgamated a couple different things into the 'demon', and you were apt to catch it being about depression, mental illness and trauma. I don't want to delve much deeper than that.
Also yes, 'madness to many' or folie a plusieurs (madness of many) is folie a deux (madness of two, in which one person induces/triggers delusions and/or hallucinations in another person, and the course of treatment is to usually separate the two with the person being induced being able to come back to reality after, can read more here https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Folie_a_deux). I was going to go for folie en familie but opted not to, since I wanted to distance the monster from being family, so it would be more generalized and the reader would have an easier time to attach their own meaning to it.
Thank you so much for reading! I always love reading your comments. :)