poetry – Irene North

Storyteller

They tell me I’m good at telling stories
but they don’t want to hear mine
it’s too dark
it’s too sad
it’s too scary
and they don’t want to think about it

They want me to tell them stories
but accounts need to be happy
tales need to be funny
a narrative which can be shared

“Tell me another story about your grandma,” they say.
Those are fun
those are nice
those make me think of my family
and not anything sad

They don’t want to hear my stories
of violence and anguish
they don’t want to hear my stories
of loneliness and torment
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s a smile at the end

No one wants to hear descriptions
of potential snatched away
or chronicles of terror and screams,
suffering and tears

keep those stories to yourself
that’s for you to figure out
shoulders to cry on are rescinded
it’s too much for them to endure

I write my stories down on paper
for no one else to view
Everyone says they want to read them
but no one ever does

They say they want me to share my stories
but as soon as I open my mouth
the topic gets changed
keep that to yourself

Tears stain the paper as I go
memories I don’t want in my head
transferred to dead trees
but the visions live on just for me

They don’t want to hear my stories
of brutality and struggle
They don’t want to hear my stories
of solitude and sorrow
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s a smile at the end

No one wants to hear
stories with terror, screams, and wails
of potential snatched away
or lamentations of what could have been

keep those stories to yourself
that’s for you to figure out
shoulders to cry on are retracted
it’s too much for them to bear
weeping should be kept solitary

Asleep or awake
my stories are continually shared
only with myself.
Everyone says I’m a good storyteller
but joy is all they want to hear
There is no desire to receive my speech

Their reticence serves to placate themselves
pat themselves on the back
with empty platitudes
thinking they provided guidance
and good deeds
while I process the images alone

I sit alone at home
putting horror and repugnance into words.
With my little blue book and black ink
I detail my stories
that no one will ever read

They don’t want to hear my stories
of trying to pick myself up again
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless it’s tied up neatly with a bow
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s pleasantness at the end.