Do you know what it is like you when your own Mother calls you psycho? When she can’t even communicate to you without yelling at you? You can’t. When your best friend is talking behind your back? To the boy you like dating your best friend. It’s impossible. Saying your last goodbyes to your Father just before his death. Having to bring your little sister up while your Mother is lying in her bedroom battling depression. It’s hard. It’s hard to keep going, being that daughter who gets the best marks in school. The one that gets into university. The one without a boyfriend in high school. The one that has to please her Mother and gets judged for everything she does by her own Mother. Having no one besides her and having to grow up by herself. It’s sad. But the secret is…. I’m her.
22 December 2018 I imagined my mind knowing better felt my viscera quiver. the birds get startled into flight though always round-trip. it’s good to be home alone not that you would if I had anything to do about it but we make do. life sucks its thumb. you’re right where you’re meant to be. who’s to say blankets aren’t party dresses or that eyes can only wet in one way. gloveless in this eventide chill. luckily we aren’t parting thickets for interstices for clarity. I empathise with the trees that bend out of light’s way at least till rough limbs creep up gently against glass they refuse to crack. dirty bedroom window remains so. it treasures the head that rested on it oil and all pondering the ease with which we dance around naked intention. show me it’s possible to live and for quite a while without flowering a new wound. how lovely we are in our natural state. taste of raw tongue on my tongue waves fragile at our feet. we stay dipped long enough for our digits to grow old shrivel without fear. something once felt too cruel to endure. I would not have chosen to float if given the option. but now i’ll swim.