Chelsea Bodnar
Samara
Today I come out of your screen, stretched and blurry, one long
unbroken scream. Wet hair slither crying heart out on the phone before
the dial tone clicks, purrs, wrecks nerves of listeners. When people die,
why do their ghosts come back so fucking angry? Easy answer:
don’t you hear me, broken-jawed and whispering from your drain? Don’t you hear me,
I’ve got no good reason to be sad, no reason, don’t you hear me? You didn’t pay
attention ‘til the lights went out forever, my nails flecking the well-wall, the whole world
closing up and leaving me down in the dark with all the small change of your wishes.
Today I come out of your screen, stretched and blurry, one long
unbroken scream. Wet hair slither crying heart out on the phone before
the dial tone clicks, purrs, wrecks nerves of listeners. When people die,
why do their ghosts come back so fucking angry? Easy answer:
don’t you hear me, broken-jawed and whispering from your drain? Don’t you hear me,
I’ve got no good reason to be sad, no reason, don’t you hear me? You didn’t pay
attention ‘til the lights went out forever, my nails flecking the well-wall, the whole world
closing up and leaving me down in the dark with all the small change of your wishes.
This is getting old for the dead girl, too - Samara Redux
In sequel after sequel they still think that they can save her, that little girl
can’t be what everyone has said. Sad backstory must mean that
something’s tender under the black blinders of her hair, behind the eyes
that flash white as they take a life despite a lack of provocation.
But you know better, though that would never make her less, or lessoned like some
duchess who’s been painted on the wall. Who needs a reason. Who needs a word
besides the certainty that when a thing is bad you burn it down, your body or the world.
That when it hurts sometimes you don’t bounce back and take the hand that reaches out
to lay your bones to rest.
So when the well-lid opens and dead horses press their manes into the
sand, when teeth of hairbrush whisper through the long dark hair of she
who’d onetime condescend to be her mother, know that you’re not
getting out. Your hobbyist salvation. A bad joke, some loser’s number
written on a napkin. With this kind of injury, all help can only mock.
Call me if you ever want to talk.
In sequel after sequel they still think that they can save her, that little girl
can’t be what everyone has said. Sad backstory must mean that
something’s tender under the black blinders of her hair, behind the eyes
that flash white as they take a life despite a lack of provocation.
But you know better, though that would never make her less, or lessoned like some
duchess who’s been painted on the wall. Who needs a reason. Who needs a word
besides the certainty that when a thing is bad you burn it down, your body or the world.
That when it hurts sometimes you don’t bounce back and take the hand that reaches out
to lay your bones to rest.
So when the well-lid opens and dead horses press their manes into the
sand, when teeth of hairbrush whisper through the long dark hair of she
who’d onetime condescend to be her mother, know that you’re not
getting out. Your hobbyist salvation. A bad joke, some loser’s number
written on a napkin. With this kind of injury, all help can only mock.
Call me if you ever want to talk.
Chelsea Margaret Bodnar is a nerd across all media types, and is way into Riverdale right now. Her first chapbook, Basement Gemini, is forthcoming in 2018 from Hyacinth Girl Press. It’s a collection of poetry themed around horror movie tropes, so if you want to read some poems featuring references to films like The Conjuring, Cold Creek Manor, The Fourth Floor, Sinister, The Amityville Horror, Session Nine, etc. etc., and all those ones where some creepy guy is living inside the walls of an apartment complex or house, then you can check it out. She is a legal secretary at a public defender’s office by day, and she is always a witch for Halloween.
