Fathers and Strangers

personal, poetry

To whom it may concern,

You didn’t teach me how to brush my teeth, neither were you there when I saw the tooth fairy. But somehow I have your smile that has been dimmed for a while.

You were not around to cheer away my fears, you didn’t witness me fall or put the bandaid on my scraped knee. But your bones are the ones that frame my body.

It wasn’t you that took me to watch my first movie, you did not introduce me to Ron and Harry, not even one bedtime story. Yet everything I see, are from these eyes you gave me.

Our likeliness is what I was blamed for, put to shame for, so much that I’d curse your name for walking out that door. Leaving me with your face distorted in a photograph and nothing more. Twenty five years this October, the days you cross my mind are those I do not have strength to stay sober.

Hate is what you left in the woman that birth me, jealousy that filled her eyes whenever she looked at me. From the moment I was free, your image is the only thing she wants to see. Your blood runs through my veins, but to me, to me… you’re a just a name.

What would I say if you came? Did you think my life was a game? You and my mother who wanted to play yet I am the one that has to pay? Would it change anything if I said I’m gay? Does it matter which monster I slay? Why couldn’t you just stay?

Maybe, instead I would thank you. For giving life to the egg that drops and letting me grow up with my Pops. For taking that hike and allowing me to be raised by Mike and his bikes. For not giving me the chance to share with you my father daughter dance.

Yet here I am guarded and broken hearted, still wondering, was I the reason you departed?

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Things my mother taught me

personal, poetry

My mother taught me about unrequited love,

By showing me that even the biggest of my accomplishments was not enough. The gold stars and hard work I achieved, the boundaries that pushed me to the brink of insanity… could not even have her blink… my way.

My mother gave me lessons in sacrifice,

The love of my life, the friends I had, the home I built, the family that was not by blood… I sacrificed it all for her. My life paused like a bad movie on an idle TV set in a living room filled with boxes surrounded by dust bunnies while she reminds me constantly how she sacrificed her life to have me before she turned seventeen.

My mother never made me cry,

more than five minutes. Not because she didn’t want me to show weakness but because a stick of her Marlboro lights take five minutes to burn and with the last ash from that styrofoam filter, my problems should be out of the picture. My tears were a distraction in her filtered life. my problems eventually became white noise she does not want to hear of.

My mother was a model,

living the life of a housewife, unsatisfied, filled with booze and bitterness except for the days she would remember about God. Leaving me to struggle to find the balance between enjoying life and keeping my weight under the pressure she whispers into my dreams.

My mother showed me how to use concealer,

to hide the black circles from the nights I had to pick her up at the club in my pajamas. She taught me how to hold my belly in while I walk because a model’s daughter should never slouch or have a permanent pouch.

My mother took me to the doctors,

who had needles and wires that dug into my fat and pumped me with drugs that stopped my hunger and killed the drive of hormones inside my body so I could fit the dress she bought two sizes smaller. The dentists she had put braces on me not because my teeth were crooked but so I had a hard time eating, not that the corsets I wore under my school uniform was enough but because it  was never enough to stop her socialite friends to comment on how I was “such a big girl now”.

My mother taught me how to cook,

at the age of six because the divorce took a toll and son away from her. It took me a week to finish a box of cereal, a stool to reach the high cupboards where the cans of Campbell soup, and help from the lady next door to make sure I didn’t mix up Clorox to the flower printed dress I needed to wear to school.

My mother taught me how to lie,

about the restless nights, the sleepless weeks, the mother-daughter days at the slimming spa, the puncture wounds from the liposuction surgery, the screaming battles we had, the hunger suppressing pills, the secret boyfriend, and the bullshit that only lets everyone see us as a happy family.

My mother was fantastic,

with making my life toxic. The premature labor she made me absolutely sure was my fault. The vault of lies I keep for her and the death of any hope I had which she drove me to bury deep under ground.

My mother taught me about responsibility,

because that was what she handed over to me. The responsibility of taking care of a baby at seventeen because heaven knows how dark the baby blues took over her, the responsibility of juggling university and a household to upkeep at nineteen because she wanted me to have a taste of a fraction of the struggles she went through the time she had me. The responsibility of watching the words I speak so I never have to put others through the pain of hearing that I was responsible for her losing the love of her life and the youth she never had.

My mother knows how to drive,

me insane. Every membrane in my atom pushes me to not let her win in the mind games that she plays with my brain. Knowing that even if I do, if I do… there’s nothing to gain.

 

100 days

personal, poetry

You are not the same person that laughed with me on the way to the movies in September

You didn’t become the person that you promised me in the beginning of October

You aren’t the person who wiped my tears away in that corner of the parking lot in November

You made me promise myself to say good bye to you in December

but now… I’m standing in the middle of January dreading the coming of February, March and I hardly know where I’ll be in April..

When May comes, will I still remember the way your eyes look at me?

All these months ahead of me and I have life planned out in a journal, but your name…

Your name is etched in my veins like a game…

Your voice calling my name, the way you said it that drove me insane…

Your touch, oh my god, your touch… will I ever be touched the same way again?

One hundred days to the day when you caught my eye…

but now all I see are distorted memories in the places that we’ve been…

The things I would give… my heart, my spleen…

Just enough to go back where we have been..

 

A letter to the guy that should’ve been here.

personal, poetry

It fucking hurts.

A year later and still the words you said to me linger.

A month later and I still have the taste of your lips on my skin.

A week later and I still wonder why I felt so much better when you were here.

It feels wrong to meet new people, but I see the clues around your social media feed that you already have someone else.

What happened between the weeks you were busy until the moment silence filled the space between us?

Did I care too much?

Does my affection scare you?

What happens now when you’re not around and I’m here craving for you?

Should I let go of whatever that’s left or should I keep the candle on?

In the corner of that coffee shop we kissed I drink an overly sweet cup of coffee and all I can taste is you.

What should I do?