This is the day I sit heavy, hunched,
A fallen daffodil.
Tears like winter rain
Roll into puddles of worry
Like prayers for chaos
Swell on the kitchen table.
I see you, in your thirties, slumped here too.
Deep breaths do nothing to soften tornados of Truth.
Circles and spirals and cycles of it.
I am born again.
Birthed into the wretched routine I needed to know
To be the me who has become me.
I was alone and afraid.
I made friends on the paper,
Sisters who swept me into safety,
Into hours that ticked always, only
The wooden door closed.
Stuck with scratch-and-sniff stickers,
I cried and begged for that red apple.
Just one red apple.
But harvest hadn't happened
and the fruit wasn't ripe.
Inside I was the one with rot,
With bruises and bitter parts.
Enzymes of your sadness seeped in me
So your regrets became my reality.
Your organs soaked in wine
And my heart drowning in waves of numb.
I taught myself early how not to feel,
How to cope with coming out of the womb,
With the undone doing of coming home.
Chocolate was the first word I learned to spell.
I was schooled at the decorated dinner table:
Patterned china plates, cloth napkins, white lace,
Over an overflowing glass of scotch,
With seventeen seasons of quiche, chicken cacciatore, and butter.
Blurred yet bold,
It was clear that,
"We get what we get and we don't get upset."
Reincarnated into the Now,
Into the Know.
But left decayed with memories that wreck this moment.
The Present smells like sandalwood
Or cigarettes. I can't tell which.
I remember when we held hands
And you said,
"I love you.
This is the day I sit heavy, hunched.