I am the product of love lost
and old fairy tales.
I can recall the stories,
the ones that still stain my heart,
for I believed the lies
as if they were truths,
and they were, at the time,
fibs to keep peace, to ease her pain.
I didn’t know true from false
as I listened too well,
sat in that old leather chair,
and measured the floors by the length
of my kid feet.
I am the aftermath of a hurricane
and the eye of the storm.
Nothing felt safe
as I tried to navigate the tricky
waters of childhood —
simultaneously being a kid
and her confidant.
I kept secrets, heavy,
heavy secrets for her
about him and him. I
learned fear and desperation
each time I sat quietly,
pretending to be oblivious.
I am the result of distressing years
and hundreds of blank pages.
I filled journal after journal
with words I barely knew
to try and make sense
of the four walls she built around me.
My thoughts swirled on the paper,
dark ink tattooing stark, blank pages
that held the potential for anything.
I am the fruit of their efforts
and the cultivation of roses.
Each prickle extruding from my skin,
sharp and abusive,
tried to protect me from the unknowns.
Every once in a while, I recall events
from back then, events I’d rather forget,
having dug so deep to bury them.
I remember her and him,
and her and him.
I remember being in the middle,
not knowing it wasn’t my fault,
because I had yet to develop
the mental capacity to understand.
I am more than them
and yet nothing without the past.
The bones of my hips
and lines of my palms
tell you my story.
They tell you of my path
from there to now,
how I’m chipped yet unbroken
— a teacup well-used.
