I’d like to share a poem with you that I wrote very recently while taking a break from NaNoWriMo. However, before I post it, I’d like to offer a thought that has been troubling me for quite a while.

This should go without saying, but the tone expressed in this poem is NOT an emotion I am currently going through.

In the past, I’ve received feedback on my writing not in regards to the quality of the pieces themselves but rather the subject matter. If I write about anger, some assume I must be having marital discord. If I write about infidelity, there have been people that jump to the conclusion that I must be having an affair. So, by this token, if I write a story about a child dying – am I now a murderer in secret? Good god, what must you think of people like Stephen King and Chuck Palahniuk? Serial killers on the loose! Really, it’s absurd.

Please note, the majority of my writing is fictional at best, sheer bullarky at its worst. I very rarely “write what I know” and, when I do, I tend to categorize it as such. An example of this would be my flash fiction piece, “Seasons of Change,” that has been recently published in Literary Erosion and in The Aviator. Though that piece was based on a factual event in my life, I made it very clear that I had added fictional elements as a means to separate myself from the story and create an additional layer of drama. So even my nonfiction has a vein of imagination running through it.

With that being said, please enjoy my work for what it is – and please don’t read into it further than necessary, because you’re likely going the absolute opposite direction for what was really happening in my life at the time I penned it. Some of my darkest pieces were written during my happiest hours and vice versa; I tend to write bubbly poetry and limericks when I’m depressed, as it cheers me up. I know that I am not alone in this practice and I find comfort in the fact that most people recognize that my writing is for entertainment, for enjoyment, and not a pseudo-diary or psychological release for me.

Now that we’ve gotten the disclaimer out of the way, here is my poem:

The Leftovers
By Victoria Webster-Perez

Your words still burn me
Like salt in a fresh wound. I can hear
Your voice, reverberating
In my soul long after you’ve stopped
Talking.
When
Did I let you wield this power
Over me? How
Did I become one of “those girls” who gives
Too much, too fast? You
Took it all, always wanting
More, more, more. Never satisfied! The whole of me
Failing to meet
Your unattainable standards. Now I am blemished,
Branded,
Used,
Leftovers for the world. But guess what?
I’m not yours.
Not your problem anymore. Let someone else clean up
The mess you left behind.

*********************

Ok, now back to NaNoWriMo’ing!

Optimistic about hitting my word quota for the day,

~ Victoria Elizabeth Ann