The Island

This poem is about the town I grew up in.
Well, the town I am still growing up in, technically.
I've never written a poem about a town specifically, so. This is new, and scary, and exciting.

I lived in Mystic Islands when I was younger, then moved away when my parents got divorced, then back again when I lived with my dad for that week, then away.
And now I'm back. Two streets over from the street I grew up on.
So. This poem is about all of that. I hope you like it. : ) 

 

The Island 

My dad used to take me fishing when I was little
On the lagoons in his backyard.
He wold pick a fish from an empty pickle bucket, gut it
In front of me.
Claim it felt no pain.

 

I couldn't wait to get out.

 

For most of my life, I skirted aroud the town
Where I grew up.
I'd take e long way home to avoid my old street
Where twelve year olds push heroin.
Bypassed the next one over,
Where everyone knew the old man died,
But no one wanted to admit where the smell
Was coming from.

Maybe they hated this place as much as him.

He didn't tell his daughters either that the heart
Still beats when it slips out,
The scales picked off,
Long after the air has gotten to it.

 

And when I go home now I still have to look
At rotting stuffed animals
In the place
On the corner
Where the girl was hit by a car.