Neely Woodroffe

Published: November 13th, 2014

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Neely Woodroffe is a junior at Miami Arts charter School, where she majors in chorus and creative writing. Her writing has been published in the "Creative Communications Spring Anthology" of 2013 and has been awarded a silver key in the "Scholastic Art and Writing Alliance" She lives in her home in Cutler Bay with her mother, step-father, four cats, and one beloved dog.

Pistanthrophobia: 
The Fear of Trusting People Due To Past Experiences.

I told you I was sorry,
each time, a tear passed your cheek on its descent to the floor.
It seems I could not love you the way you wanted, the way you craved.

I just wanted to hold your hand I kept forgetting,
you needed constant reassurance of my love.
 
Hand holding didn’t shout my love loud enough, I guess,
but when did it matter if the world knew?

Your idea of love kept you from seeing mine
Each door I held, each drizzle of insults I protected you from,
I was never loud enough, I guess,
even when I shared my secrets and asked you to dance.

I was too innocent for kissing,
I know that’s what you really wanted. Though I could,
glide with confidence in public,
my actions screamed “child present” whenever we were alone.

It seems as though my messages were unclear,
clouded by your unvoiced, preconceived notions of actual love,
misinterpreted by my lack perception,
instigated and ignited by the opinions of others.
It could’ve ended better.

Even though I was broken and you were not,
I trusted you, it’s true, but did you ever believe I could love you?

Tomorrow's Yesterday

Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow,
but that’s what I said yesterday,
my mind is pooled with overdue work,
my heart beat speeds with every minute passed
every breath, an attempt at long forgotten peace.

Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow,
but that’s what I said yesterday,
The white walls around me shake, as if they,
shed tears of frustration with me.
The office chair I’ve lived in for five months,
with is mahogany arms rubbed raw from my nail marks,
groans at every movement away from its matching desk.
The ceiling seems to cave in,
simultaneously with each heavy sigh.

Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow,
but that’s what I said yesterday,
I can feel my arms itch from rest,
my toes curl with anticipation and apprehension.

Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow,
but that’s what I said yesterday.
If I would’ve done everything earlier,
life would be cake and I could be graced with smiles,
I could feel the sun feather my face,
feel sand beneath my legs, as wind mumbles secrets in my hair.
I could be free, liberated, complete
but maybe I can do all that tomorrow.

Maybe God Could Love Me

I’ve always gone to church on Sundays.
From the time I was three until I could think for myself,
I never questioned anything, always believing with all my power.

But then I started to think, if there was a god,
why did he let the slaves be held captive for 200 years?

Why did he let millions of men and women die
merely at the hands of racism, prejudice, famine, anger, spite?
 
Why is he allowing his children that he created in his image
to live in daily unspeakable torment, just because of who they love?

Why is he allowing bombs to be made, children to be kidnapped,
girls to be sold, laborers worked to the point of exhaustion,
all at the hands of someone else?

Why is he allowing this heartache, this strife, this pain, to continue?
 
With a heavy heart, I shunned god, trying to understand,
how could he turn his back on us, forsake us?
Music soothed my every ach,
rushing over the sore spots like fresh water.

Doubt became my default setting.
closing me off from any ideas, I wasn’t foolish anymore.
Negativity ran through my veins,
shaping my every thought, choking any hope that dared the spring,
I found myself broken without the God I had attempted to shun,
the God I thought had forsaken me,
But it was I who had forsaken me.

I Never Had a Chance

I believe we all try.
I try to keep myself afloat above all,
this monotony and pain,
it pulls at my ankle jerk me,
in reality, I have no one.

She was supposed to save me, not herself.
She was supposed to love me before herself,
before anything or anyone else as I do.
This unrequited love spins around me while I sleep,
I am not who I was before this spell fell over me,
your distaste for me eats away at my soul,
leaving you with more of me than I have of myself.

The Words Left Unsaid

I tried so hard to keep myself whole,
I even shied away from you because I knew.
I knew I couldn’t rely on any honesty.

You asked me if I loved you
and I asked you “Why?”
Did you love me then?
I didn’t even see myself smile or my eyes dilate,
I blame exhaustion and anger for scarring me,
I used to be whole and understanding,
now I cry for you and wonder if I can love you,

If you had seen the callouses of my hand,
You would’ve known I wrote the symphonies for you,
By the curls at the nape of my neck, my story began to form,
If you had known where to look, you would’ve seen how I loved you,

From the soles of my feet to the straight ends on my kinky hair.