My Dearest

You have said it before, you have said it again;
that butcher knife you throw at me in hopes to win
the civil war. It’s about an infant, the crash and
death of girlhood dreams, an umbilical cord to
hang myself with like my departed uncle.

It’s something I cannot physical offer, and every
time you mention it I feel like an abortion clinic:
cold, sterile, a burning cap of bleach down my
esophagus which poison my veins. I am, after all,
the ruined potential of hand-me-downs.

But what you don’t know is I’ve dreamed of
being a father and not some worn down mule
who collapses beneath a colorful arc, and I have
named these babies Lily and Brent; I sometimes
sing of them like a carol.

Perhaps my best option is to dig around in
the dumpster and find one who is plastic,
sign it over legally and let it devour my heart
as my sister consumed yours. That would be
an eye for an eye.

You remind me that I’ll never know about the
magic of fairies or feel the warmth of my own flesh
and blood staring me in wonder. I never did commit
suicide, but the idea kills me a hundred times and
I have felt smaller than a zygote.

Sometimes it’s a nauseating mobile above my
head, always revolving with its crank music and
stars and moons out of reach. It’s a diaper I’ll never
change, feces and formula I’ll never smell, and this
d*mn compartment closes in.

As always, the relentless cry of words make the
heart stop beating for a second and crack forms
where my love can never be given. Instead of
nursery rhymes I am drowning in a sea where
maternal requiems churn violently.

And hearing those words is the same as opening
my rib cage and letting all that is left spew on
the floor, and believe it or not, it’s pulled the
salt from my lids, the mucus from nostrils and
left my throat sore from screaming at God.

Maybe his plan is for me to bury my seed in a
flesh tulip without touch, without passion,
without love but through a addict’s key to happiness;
the way farmer’s line up cows and inject them
to bare more calves to milk.

And so it seem that my destiny is to stand beside
my statue of an abomination and hold the stone
in my pale, weak arms. Whatever it is, know that
beating a dead horse only peels back the inevitable
and it’s a senseless attack.


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