“Okay, what is poetry?”, I got asked by a snooping little girl holding open one of my many notebooks.
I was horrified, she clearly had read something but what? There’s no need to introduce this young girl to feelings she probably couldn’t understand. The profanity, the vulgarity, the explicitly of certain poems weren’t really what bothered me, but corrupting a young mind that shouldn’t have to deal with some of my deepest and darkest feelings got me petrified.
Then, other questions started popping up :
What if she tells everyone?? What if she starts asking others questions? What if she researches herself what she doesn’t understand? What if she asks her teachers?? …
One question amongst them all terrified me:
What if she asked me if those are my true feelings?
Well, it’s not that difficult to lie to a young child or to distract them from the matters at hand, to be quite honest it wouldn’t even be challenging to convince her that those writings were past homeworks.
But did I want it to? Children are way easier to speak to, when they don’t understand something or get curious, they get super quiet and are attentive listeners. I could easily dumb it down or beautify it for her and still get it off my chest. But then, what would have been the point of telling her at all?
If I did a good job, she’d never ask about it again and if I did poorly, well, one word : catastrophy, curiosity at a peak, questions upon questions at any given time.
What if I told her the whole truth? What is the whole truth? That I get very anxious? That I get very sad? That sometimes, I feel nothing at all? That I envy those who have blond hair because they can color so much easier? It digs so deep and sometimes only brushes the surface.
And by the time I’ve been struggling with all of those questions, she had already gotten bored and was heading out of the room.
“It doesn’t matter”, she said as she disappeared from my sight.
“Hmm… I guess you’re right”, I replied a few seconds later.