Still Crawling


I am not
the rum that festers among
the seventh sea of his tainted tongue
nor allured by the touch on my young
skin against his
and I pray every goddamned day to be absolved of the poisonous kiss
that left me worthless
in this
battle of the richest
the fittest
the slimmest
I can never find a moment of bliss
when my mind is running marathons
but never reaching the finish

I am not
smashed plates
no matter the date
nor the man who remains irate
at my hearts rate
or slow pace in life's race
far from perfection
but no failure in need of correction
only seeking guidance and direction
and finding paternal love in all of his hate
and haste
no longer caressing the pumpkin shaped face
that he once adored, those days have been left behind
without a trace

I am
a product of misconception
my conception
the final effort of two lost souls without direction
a misguided erection
where two stars collided in the universes suspension
an imminent pension
to all ills
bills
and the type of empty love that kills
all hearts and souls alike
my brother teaching me to ride a bike
while she hit the Bacardi and went right to a Mikes
and he fought his way home with guns and knives
sharp enough to rip a family apart no matter how hard one strives

to be the glue,
it was a god given clue
of the bridges we would burn
and the scars we would earn
or which ways the winding road could turn,
the darkness in which we learned
to no longer fear stepping on the sidewalks cracks
as we carried the family on our own backs
reality stitched together held up by mere tacks
of existence and resistance
and in the instance
we were asked what lessons we had learned
our insides would churn
as we responded with the ashes of bridges burned
held in the urn
of our parents love and dedication,
or perhaps a resignation
from our parents as individual persons
and pride swallowed after curses
futures we thought would be found in hearses
or finding pills in different purses
shielding from his lurches
leaves of our family tree as bare as fall birches
but when they ask
if given the chance
to take it all back
we couldn't seem to find a star bright enough
to wish upon that.

I am not
my fathers daughter
nor what they always sought for.

I am
built from broken promises
and unmentionable losses
cigarette burns, cigarette ashes
scratching at rashes
made of flashes
from the past
that
never escape me
and have taught me what type of person I never want to be,
to bite the hand that feeds.

I am
ten feet under the odds stacked
against my back
but despite their lack
of love and light,
and being taught not to believe it in the slight,
I crawl on with all of my might,
to one day learn
I deserve to win this fight.

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