NOVEMBER 2025 (POEMS): Claire Westerman
"I was not born soft.
I came in screaming;
a fist of noise in a house
already tired of the sound." ("Born Last")
This November is a busy month for Artists from Maryland! After finishing up our high school creative writing contest with Baltimore Polytechnic Institute, we have decided on three winners and one runner up! We are featuring the first winner, Claire Westerman! Below is their winning packet, and you can read our interview with them here!
Claire Westerman (they/them) is a Maryland-based poet and writer who dives into pain, love, identity, and all the messy parts of being human. Their poetry gives voice to the things most people don’t say out loud. And they are the author of Poet’s Soul Whisper, a chapbook on Amazon. When not writing, Claire is probably reading, listening to music, making art, or working on puzzles.
Hollow Throne Fraying Flag
They sit on thrones of splintered bones,
dripping rot from silver tongues,
signing freedoms into graves,
laughing as the noose is strung.
A nation built on severed hands,
stitched with fear and bound in chains,
where bodies burn beneath their rules,
and silence drowns the ones who wane.
They stitched a flag with brittle thread,
called it unity, called it free—
but the seams split, the colors bled,
drowning in hypocrisy.
They stand on stages, chant their lies,
"One nation, strong, indivisible,"
yet walls rise higher, fists ignite,
families torn, unforgivable.
They steal the child from mother’s arms,
lock the father in a cage,
call it justice, call it law,
as grief turns into silent rage.
They carve commandments into flesh,
call it order, call it law,
strip the names from those who scream,
call it justice—flaw by flaw.
Wombs are prisons, love a crime,
history repeats its dirge,
marching boots on shattered rights,
dragging corpses through the purge.
They claim their god is watching close,
but I see vultures, see their teeth,
tearing futures from the weak,
writing laws in blood beneath.
And still, they wave their tattered cloth,
pretend the seams can hold the weight,
but nothing strong is built on bones,
and nothing whole is born from hate.
But sure, let's call this Great.
(Previously published in The Poly Journal: 2025)
//
Born Last
I was not born soft.
I came in screaming;
a fist of noise in a house
already tired of the sound.
They say babies bring families together,
but I arrived like glue
poured on broken glass.
I was the answer
to a question I never asked.
A second chance
for parents who had already given up
on firsts.
I gave everything.
Laughter, help,
good grades, clean hands,
cooked meals, held breath.
I gave and gave
until my voice cracked,
and the echo
was the only thing that answered.
I was loud, once.
Not in anger,
but in hope.
Hope that someone might look,
might stay,
might say,
you matter too.
But this house…
it teaches you to vanish
without dying.
They only held what screamed loudest.
They only saw what burned.
And I.
I only ever folded.
My sister was fire.
Her rage bright enough
to steal all the oxygen.
My brothers were ghosts
or gods in her shadow.
One with a thousand excuses,
the other with none.
They took up space.
So I learned to shrink.
My mother’s arms
were already full.
Her time already spoken for.
I watched her pour herself
into everyone else,
and thought
if I help her, maybe she’ll see me.
I was her echo.
Her shadow.
Her silence.
My father lived behind doors
and long hours.
When I passed by,
I held my breath
afraid the air itself
would break the illusion
of peace he never gave us.
He looked through me,
until I became something
to measure my siblings against.
Be better.
Be quiet.
Be grateful.
Be small.
I wasn’t peaceful.
I was drowning
in plain sight.
I cried into pillows
so no one else had to hear it.
I learned to make my grief
more palatable.
I held the house together
so it wouldn't fall on top of me.
And still,
I was forgotten in the foundation.
I whispered apologies into bedsheets
that remembered more of me than
my family did.
I was raised
by shadows and distance,
by what was left over.
They say being the youngest
means being cherished.
But I was not held,
I was handed
a legacy of noise and silence
and told to survive it.
And I did.
Still do.
But survival
is not the same
as being seen.
//
Savior
You were meant to help me?
Instead, you used me,
Hurt me over and over.
My early memory; Four.
You grabbing my face,
Telling me to open wide.
Spoonfuls of Pain force-fed to me.
But it was before then too, wasn’t it?
Your hands—I still feel them,
Permanently glued to my skin.
As I grew, they gripped harsher,
Taking more, leaving less.
And you enjoyed it?
My cries, infant cries.
Telling you to stop.
Didn't you think it was wrong?
No?
Fifteen years.
Pain.
Tears as I begged you.
I begged you to stop.
And you were meant to help me?
Was this supposed to help?
Prepare me for the world.
The "real" world.
Fifteen years of my tears and force-fed silence.
//
Reason(s) to Stay
You. For starters, well Them.
All of them.
They bring me in and talk
And Laugh, a joyous
Real laugh. I feel A
Part.
Like maybe finally
I belong.
They joke with me, they
Say I'm nice and always welcome.
They don't judge me
They listen.
And You, oh you're my main
Reason.
I hugged you tight but I couldn't
Look you in the Eyes. Not to truly say
Goodbye.
You care too much, for me to go like
This.
So Another day. When there aren't plans
In the future, our future.
When Your family
Doesn't feel a little bit like mine too.
Because they make me feel
Real.
You make me feel.
//