Beanpole Voices in My Head

Talking through a beanpole,
I heard the voices
In my head.

Poised before
A rusty edged mirror,
Poised before
A scary life.
I began my monologue-
Bittersweet, tinged
With sadness,
Paranoia,
And all her closest cousins.

I talked of pain,
And growing pangs,
And summers spent
With candied creamy ice,
Waffles and cobble-stone walks,
Sunshine,
Lollypop apples,
Cores carefully carved out.

I talked of puberty,
And ugly first crushes,
And secret hands held,
Near the lake
With all the geese.

I talked of scraped knees,
And torn stockings,
Of bright brown gleaming eyes;
Of awkward cycle rides,
And bubblegum
When my molars fell out.

I wept over moments of
First child excitement,
I long for those people again.

I long for him
Who held me through
That first cycle ride,
He who jumped beside me
On a dodgy trampoline,
Breaking limbs and many more;
Sweet soul
Who told me tales
Of dissected rats,
And magic dragons,
Made me whole forever more.

I cry every night
In memory
Of one who never
Saw me cry.

I weep for her,
More than him.
She passed
A long lifetime ago.

In terrifying tones,
She freezes
Life over,
Walks me by
With caustic bland apathy.

My monologue
Continues,
And continues
With tears
And dead life memories.

I died with
Their memory,
I die
Every time they pass on.

My monologue
Is done,
But I know
I will always speak this,
Through an empty beanpole.