Pick your poison they say, and oh how we do.
You smoke yours and I’ll gladly drink mine.
An instant rewind, me with every sip and you with every inhale.
Back to less complicated times, back to sneaky sideway glances,
to goodbye forehead kisses,to kisses everywhere.
To all the things we will never say we miss.
So I will take another sip and you, hit after hit.
Anything to revive the irregularity that once gave rhythm
to my tirelessly beating heart.
Your name escapes my lips.
It sits there dangling,
crouched, ready to launch
into the oblivion
you are no longer in.
Who am I kidding,
for sometime, but when?
Anything and everything
all at the same time
and I’m left empty,
but I know this much:
the past is always first
to reserved a front row seat.
I am not religious.
I do not pray everyday,
but a priest once said,
you should never waste pain.
You need to give it meaning
and ever since then
I carry that around
like a ball point pen
yet nothing hasn’t changed.
Just some underlining,
surrounding the big question:
what do I believe in?
Who do I believe in?
Left with a bunch of arrows
and lines that no longer connect
a misguided page
Cheek against the wall for every vibration
because I know how much you want to be heard.
Rock me to sleep soundlessly and
hold me like you did the other day,
although I think you had alternative motives.
Please do not shake me so violently
I’ll combust into a relentless feathered storm.
I am stuck in this state of reminisce, you see,
quit telling me to get up from the floor.
Been searching lately
for the reason why
keeping a list close by
and I only came up with this:
Our love best explained,
was like two moving trains
going towards opposite directions
at the speed of sound,
at the speed of sight.
Maybe we were just passengers
whose eyes met by chance.
A fleeting moment perhaps
dragged on longer than planned.
My entire childhood was plagued with this anger I didn’t quite understand at the time. Even now that I am in my early twenties, I still can’t fully understand it, nor can I fully accept it. As a child I just knew that this part of myself made me different and because of that, I knew what the word ‘shame’ meant at a young age. I’m sure I am not alone in talking about that struggle to fit into this mold that was made for us the moment we were born. The word ‘different’ was like a disease as real as cooties were. For a really long time I let this part of me poison the way I saw the world I lived in and the way I loved the people around me. I strongly felt this betrayal and from that betrayal came this sadness that became the lens I used to see the world in. I understand this much now though, it was a really flawed way of making sense of everything and I regret letting it take over my life in the way that it did.
I feel like I was robbed of my childhood even though, in the grand scheme of things, it was a really great childhood. I hate that I could not enjoy it because of you. You, who gave me away when I was just a baby and disappeared like you were just dropping off a package on a stranger’s doorstep. No contact information left, so many questions unanswered. There it is. I am adopted. It seems silly right? The fact that I let this piece of information control my life, that I let her, who wanted nothing to do with me, control my entire life. Well I agree with you. The only thing I grasped onto was the fact that she abandoned me and from there this whole web of feelings unraveled: unwanted, flawed, not good enough. I remember always having the assumption that there must be something wrong with me. I only had access to little information about my biological mother:
- She already had five other children
- She had an affair and she didn’t want her husband to find out
- She was too poor to raise another child
To me they were just excuses. I was young, I couldn’t even begin to understand. I grasped onto the ‘abandoned’ part of it all like I was drowning and this piece of information was the only thing that would save me. Little did I know it was doing the drowning. It was a slab of concrete tied around my ankles. On the other hand, I only knew one thing about my biological father. He doesn’t even know I exist. It took me twenty-two years to even begin to really try and accept this part of me. This is part of that process, this reflection piece (although it is coming off as more of a rant and for the I apologize). It was only until last year I was ready to understand and to let go of the anger associated with my adoption, so I thought. You see, life does this funny thing when everything seem to finally settle, it throws you another curve ball that completely knocks you off your feet. Mine came in the form of a Facebook message…
I do not need pictures of him
to elicit unwanted memories.
He is engraved in my brain
like the necklace I had made
carelessly with the wrong date.
Scratched into the dark skies,
a record that cannot be fixed
now to skip beat after beat.
A shooting star in flames
once bright, now fades.
A destiny defining mistake.
He used to keep it by his bed,
the necklace I had made,
covered in the letters I wrote,
but not anymore, not anymore.
I cannot help but question:
How many times they were read?
if they were ever read at all?
Gathered have I all the flowers
collected from the path
that was chosen for you.
Plucked are all the leaves,
barren now are the stalks.
I know my way and here I am,
but you have just started.
My protest, my screams
are feeble from over here.
I cannot help but watch you
find beauty among the thorns.
I am screaming at an unforgiving void.
If I could have, I would have
replaced every thorn prick
with the flowers I had accumulated.
I would have made myself
the first stranger you stopped
to ask for directions.
Your path may seem without direction,
but I promise abundance is yet to come.
I am a museum bound artifact,
though not because I am a masterpiece.
I am displayed for inspection,
abstract therefore questionable,
any explanation as a default is justified.
I am what they see,
what they think they know, I am.
A velvet rope divides us.
Try not to get to close.
I might just break,
the semiotics of your world.
I am a museum bound artifact
created by many artists,
conflicting judgmental delusions.
Bound to this glass case,
in this museum I break silently awake.
I am what they see,
what they think they know, I am,
but I am not.