Two Poems by Sam Harty

Sam Harty

Sam Harty is a poet living near New Orleans. Her work explores love, loss, survival, and the healing  power of truth. She is also the author of Lost Love Volume I and Volume II. Sam has been published in  several journals and anthologies and has just completed The Lost Little Series, a poetry collection about  reclaiming voice after sexual trauma. In her spare time, Sam volunteers at a Louisiana Trauma Nonprofit.  Sam Harty writes to breathe—and to help others do the same. 

Something happened 

I know something happened  

to him 

Somewhere out there  

someone fitted him in his first  

wife-beater shirt 

and bought him cigarettes, 

feeding him lies  

about how  

he was Superman. 

Someone BIG and STRONG  

came along and built his ego  

up so so very HIGH  

and so TALL that it was  

too BIG for anyone to handle.  

Someone who told him lies and made  him think  

He. 

Was.  

Irresistible.  

That he was "DA MAN" and no one dare refused him.  

They amputated his sense of decency,  his empathy for all others.  

BUT! 

I don't care! 

I can't care about his 

problems, only what he did to me. Made me grow UP thinking 

ALL MEN ARE ANIMALS 

scared to be myself, 

not being really sure who

that was anyway.. 

A little girl who 

thought it was OK 

to be a whore. 

So yeah, he was ruined by someone  but I simply don't care.

Scream on Paper

 

I was never taught to be a child. 

I was only ever taught to stay quiet taught to

withhold truths 

without outright telling lies, 

before I knew it could cost me. 

I always believed 

love was earned 

by merely showing up, 

doing as told. 

But over and over I was told 

that I was too much. 

And not enough. 

All at the same time. 

And now I’m just invisible. 

So I wrote louder. 

Loved harder. 

Shouted into blank pages 

waiting for something

to answer. Nothing ever

did. 

And now I am angry. 

I will not rhyme pretty 

for your comfort. 

I will not apologize 

for the sharp edges of survival. 

I scream on paper 

because I was punished 

for screaming in real life. 

Because the world turned down the volume and said, 

“Now, now. Be brave.

Be quiet.” Fuck quiet. 

These poems are bloodletting. 

These lines are broken 

because I was.

These poems don’t soothe.

They split open the quiet.

They’re not here to inspire 

they’re here to survive. 

I am not a metaphor 

for your

healing journey. I am a

warning sign  

torn down, repainted in rage. 

This is not poetry. 

This is evidence. 

This is what it

sounds like when a

girl stops

pretending and

finally 

opens her throat.