Voice over by Val Cole

POEM:

I wish you were dead.

Does that make me a bad
person?

Maybe.

Anyway.

I wish you were dead.

It’s strange, you know?
Carrying around
this kind
of hate.

Because it’s not the
boiling burning bubbling
kind that wakes me up at night.

No.

it’s the quiet kind, the passive
kind. The kind of hatred
that sits in my chest
next to my other heart.

Thumps in my chest
with my other heart.
Only a whisper, but listen…

Can you hear it?

I can. On occasion.
Like when someone mentions
your name, and the hatred, the rage
skips a beat,

stops.

Then begins
palpitating,
pounding,
pumping,
so loud, my ears ring,
so fast, my chest
aches, swells, throbs,
and this rage, this hate,
leaks into my veins, flows
straight to my brain, wraps
around my brain, and tightens
until my frontal lobe is gasping
for air, until my cerebrum is turning
blue, until finally, my thrashing
hippocampus coughs, splutters, then spits
out a single sentence (“I wish
And as this single sentence reverberates
in my head he was
the hatred’s grip will loosen,
my frontal lobe will gulp
down mouthfuls of air,
dead”),
and my cerebrum will regain that rosy hue.

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All because of that single sentence.
“I wish he wa-

I wish you were dead.
I wish you were dead.

Why?
Because if you died,
I wouldn’t have to think about you
ever again.

I wouldn’t have to worry
about you running
your slimy little tongue
across the folds of my brain,
pushing your slimy little tongue

into the folds of my
brain, pushing, rubbing, running
that slimy, wet tongue
into my brain, against
my brain, across
my brain again, and again, and

God, I know I’m a bad person,
but I need you
to die. If you did, maybe
I wouldn’t have to

listen to people
talk about you and what you’re “going
through.”

I wouldn’t have to watch them shake
their heads in disappointment
when I shrug, and state that I don’t give a damn
about your “pain,” your “suffering.”

Because as far as I’m concerned, you could swallow
a handful of pills, and die on your knees
with vomit dribbling down your chin, and your head
slumped forward into the bowl of your toilet,
and it still wouldn’t be enough
(I was a goddam-

It will never be enough
(A goddamned chi-
But it doesn’t have to be.
I’ll take anything at this point.
Anything.
(Christ, I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep).

And so, I’ll keep wishing
for your death
in bed, when the alarm clock
flashes 11:11pm
in bright red.

I’ll keep praying for you to die
at night, hands clasped together
while I howl at an overcrowded
sky.

And I’ll keep hoping
(cross my hearts, hope you die
cross my hearts, hope you die
cross my heart, hope to

You know I could do it myself, right?
If I wanted.
I could blow your brains
out tomorrow.
If I wanted.

But I won’t, because I’m an adult.
I can’t, ‘cause I’m still a kid.

Get to know the poet:

1) What is the theme of your poem?

Hatred and rage are two of the main themes of this poem, as well as the desire for freedom. The narrator recognises that this hatred and anger is negatively affecting them. And they want this person to die, because (in their mind), that's the only way they will ever rid themselves of these painful and traumatic emotions. I'm not going to say that this belief is correct, but I'm not going to say that it's incorrect, either.

2) What motivated you to write this poem?

I am a survivor of child abuse. Between the ages of 13 and 16, I was emotionally abused and groomed by an adult who I trusted and looked up to. When I came forward about this abuse, I lost almost everything. I lost my education, my friends, and so much more. What's more, I've been scrutinised and harshly judged because I didn't react the way people expected me to react. I didn't behave the way people expected me to behave. A lot of people have this idea of a "perfect victim" and once a victim acts in a way that doesn't perfectly align with this idea, their experiences are dismissed and invalidated. I wrote this poem because I wanted to challenge this idea of the perfect victim. The narrator is flawed - they think "bad" things, and they're also angry, bitter, perhaps even a bit immature. But they're also too afraid and powerless to actually take action against their abuser. I want people to read the poem, and be shocked and unsettled by the content of it. However, I also want readers to understand that the narrator is a product of other people's actions. Maybe the narrator is a bad person, or maybe they're just a flawed human being who is attempting to navigate a situation that nobody should have to navigate. When it comes to abuse, there's no right way to think or respond, and I don't think the narrator (or any survivors of abuse) should be judged, positively or otherwise, for the way they react to, and feel about, their abuser.

3) How long have you been writing poetry?

For over 6 years.

4) If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would
that be?

Emily Dickinson. I love her poetry, and I also think she has an interesting take on death and religion. She seems to be much more comfortable with the idea of dying than other people (including myself) are. Additionally, in some poems, Dickinson shows scepticism in regards to the existence of a higher power (see - poems such as "I heard a fly buzz - when I died"), whereas, in others, she appears to maintain her belief that something greater exists (see - poems such as "Because I could not stop for Death" and "I cannot live with you.") I would love to discuss these subjects with her.

5) What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a
professional actor?

This poem was always intended to be spoken out loud. The reason why I wrote it was because of an upcoming Spoken Word night. Hearing a professional read it out loud for me is very helpful, and it allows me to strengthen my own performance of the poem, and let's me focus on the parts of the poem that may not be working very well/may need further rewrites.

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?

I have written a few scripts and a couple short stories, but poetry has always been my main focus.

7) What is your passion in life?

Writing and reading.