04 back then

back then

I lived in a small ranch house,

one block from the deep blue sea,

a place I often was tempted to wade into

and never return from.

 

The cold water reminded me of my chest,

the conditioned warped love of my nuclear birthers

as she whispered for me to join the earth.

She wanted me to come home, drown it all away.

Would drowning hurt?

How many bubbles could I make

before they broke the surface,

like a tiny whale of demise?

 

Hanging around like a persistent and

annoying friend, Darkness with her cold hands

and ever present in my bones, I wandered through

Illness, unable to move away, to detach her.

 

Mornings here were all the same,

a fire-light sunrise over roaring waves,

seagulls that replaced bird chirps,

loud as the tentius in my ears.

 

Why was Mom planning a vacation?

Would I have to foot the expense again?

Why was I paying the their bills?

I didn’t get to have a souvenir.

Like clockwork, I’d awake with dried trails,

salt staining my skin until I washed it away,

managing to burn my eyes with soap,

sudsy and clean, if only on the outside.

I’d brush my bangs over the scabs that

my nails had raked across my forehead and scalp

while in a mindless fit of being anxious.

Mom’s mouth never came up from the floor that morning.

That’s how they liked me,

how I was supposed to stay.

Unheard but seen.

I really wanted a souvenir.