surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
THE PATTERN NEVER LEFT
It doesn't knock. It never has. It waits in the quiet parts of things— in the pause between songs, In the second before sleep takes you, in the breath you almost forget to finish. That's where it lives. This– moves. It shifts it's weight when you look away. Rearranges the room while you're busy pretending you've outgrown it. You don't outgrow anything. You just get better at walking around it. Until one day— you don’t. I learned the ending first. Before the name. Before the mirror. Before anyone taught me a body could be a house and still not feel safe inside itself. I was small. Then I was grown. Then I was small again in the middle of a Tuesday, standing in a kitchen, holding a glass of water like it had instructions on how to survive. Not gone. Never gone. Just… patient. Some memories arrive late, like they were ashamed to be seen with me. Others kick the door open wearing the same shoes as people I forgave before I knew forgiveness could be used as a leash. You call it memory like that makes it smaller. Like naming it puts it in a box you can slide under the bed next to all the other things you swore you were done with. But it’s not memory. Memory stays still. This comes back to show you exactly where you still bend. Exactly where you still hope something broken will finally hold. And for a moment— just a moment— it feels familiar enough to mistake for safe. That’s the hook. Not pain. Not even loss. Familiarity. The most dangerous comfort you’ve ever called home. That is the cruelest part. Not what happened. Not even who did it. The cruelest part is how long hope can sit beside danger and call it patience. How many times I mistook shrinking for peace. How many times I made myself smaller and called it love because survival has always been good at changing its name. I keep trying to tell this in order. First this happened. Then this. Then this. But the truth keeps interrupting. The ending walks in early and sits at the table. The beginning won’t look at me. The middle keeps asking if it was really that bad or if I just learned to bleed quietly. So no. This is not a timeline. This is a room after the fight. This is every drawer open. This is the light left on because the dark has too many relatives. This is me picking up pieces that still recognize the hand that broke them. So it returns— not to destroy you, not to save you, but to ask the only question you’ve been avoiding: Are you going to answer the same way again? Or are you finally done rehearsing the same ending? And there it is. Not louder. Not bigger. Just closer. The same feeling wearing a different face. A different name. A different night. You say, “This time will be different.” Because what comes back isn’t the person— not really. It’s the pattern you never broke. The door you never fully closed. The version of you that still answers when it knocks even after you swore you’d gone silent. And it doesn’t come back to haunt you. That’s the lie. Nobody tells you healing is not a staircase. Sometimes it is a room you keep walking into from different years. Sometimes your childhood answers the phone in your adult voice. Sometimes the thing you thought you outlived is only quiet because it learned your schedule. It knows when the room empties. It knows the hour my face stops working. It knows how to wait until no one is asking why I went silent. I have been alive in the wrong order. Old before I was young. Responsible before I was held. Sorry before I knew what I had done wrong. I learned to read footsteps like weather. Learned the difference between a door closing and a door warning me. Learned how laughter can enter a room wearing someone else’s mouth. There are years I only remember by what my body does when someone raises their voice. There are names I still don’t say because my throat turns into a locked basement. There are versions of me standing in places I have already left, still waiting for someone to come back different. But your body knows better. Your body remembers what your mouth tries to rewrite. Not in order. The tone. The silence. The way your chest tightens before the fall even starts. You call it coincidence. It calls you by your first name.
By Tifani Power 4 months ago in Poets
