Books christina strigas confessional poetry dream men Poems poet poetry streams of consicousness thought words writers writing

i took all my books out of the way

i made a path for you to walk into

but you send me cryptic messages

i can’t understand. i’m not that smart

i think in beats, rainbow schemes,

i want to finish writing this poem

before he gets here and breaks my

silence into too many questions

i avoid answering. i removed my

poems for you, made you walk

straight into my heart and pull

it apart with my own weakness.

i never should have trusted you

with that one secret, you haunt

me with it, pass it around my

air like a ball. you’re playing

with my vulnerability. i tell

you to fuck off instead of good

night and in the morning you

wonder why i left for work

so early and we don’t talk again

until the following day

where we start over and forget

the past. it’s what we call

staying married these days.

emergency hospital memories poem poetry thought trauma writing

Emergency in two parts


If regular days exist

I want to have one

without trauma rooms

injections, life threatening

false alarms and real tragedies.

Spend a day in hallways

rooms which monitor


instead give science lessons

about the four chambers of the heart

(the heart, the body, the soul, the mind)

you just made that up, Mama

I suppose I did.

It is the nasty smell of sickness

versus Gucci floral scents

Diesel pour homme

how we fight the system

sign away organs

cry under smiles.

At least the walls are a warm beige

and the no service on my phone

gives me time

to reminisce

as my mom and aunt describe

myself at four, five, nine, sixteen

I did that?

How other people’s memories

of you

are not even your own

how family

is stuck together

in hospital waiting rooms

taking turns to eat

or smoke or think.

This is how your childhood

smacks you

with scenes

from a forgotten movie

you vaguely recall.

You made Greek coffee at nine

(wow, such an accomplishment)

as their definition of a woman

and mine clash once again.

Yet times means nothing

and memories

are a dream now

what was real, invented,

told to you

what you are doing

in a hospital for twelve hours

when there is absolutely nothing

medically wrong with you

so I write some poems

about moments

slipping away.


Working at a hospital at sixteen

does open up your heart

toughen your soul

evolve your mind

wear out your body

and all that smoking

in staircases discussing the importance

of art



seemed like Nelly and I

would change the world

with our artsy degrees

idealism in science

what a fucked up


Lest I forget him,

how he knew where to find me

when I hid

and took me to every quiet


to ravish me

and wake up parts of me

my young heart

still searches for.

Sitting in a waiting room

is not

my favorite place

but we must

do it

the only thing left to do

is remember

think some more

remember some more.

Say goodnight, good morning

find patience and vending machines

coffee moka awful blends

sour cream and onion chips

suddenly there are no candy bars

going crazy looking for snickers

remember the way

back form the cafeteria

memorize letters

get lost in basements

ask at least two strangers

for directions

and count my change.

Say good night again.

And start over.