You made me, mama.

hey mama.

There must be something you don’t know. I’m racking my brain for some secret I’ve kept hidden in my chest, deep down under the tissue and tucked away behind my heart, in a narrow cavity caving deeper into me than you could ever realize. My bones shelter me, my mind commands my arms to hold me, and my eyes to shut tight and escape the bright light of your acceptance. I wonder if it will wear thin or tire, if you will snap and leave me to trace my steps along my intestines, securing the pathways that my enemies create, leading a winding trail to my head. Everything seems dark sometimes.

I guess maybe there is one secret that doesn’t hide behind my heart but presents itself in my legs, my arms, my hands. I hide it with confidence and witty jokes that make me giggle more than who I’m telling it to. To the adults in my life I paint with a rosy hue, whose eyebrows travel up their foreheads when I echo the complaint of every child I know. Every child I know. How their heads cock and eyes narrow or expand, thinking our concepts and beliefs are so strange and alien. What they are best at is forgetting the hole behind their heart. They love to cloud their heads with black dust and obstruct what once was something truthful. Everything seems fake sometimes.

I watch the judgment from those who are taller as well as the kids who stand with arms out begging for anything they could bargain with. They cup their hands, shouting for a token or a pass to let slip the things inside of them. Behind their eyes is envy and hunger for a dime of attention or a penny of validation. Their pockets are weighed down with the currency of a rich man and they topple like zombies over one another for one. more. coin. Everything seems so important sometimes.

There is no reason for us to be the way we are. It’s simply passed down by our mothers and fathers or ingrained into us based on our environment. I am a part of these people and they are a part of me. We are stained. We sit like an elf on a shelf with our hair matted and laying like a wet towel on our shoulders. Our faces are high to the sky yet our feet are tied. Thick rope coils itself around our chest, its long body tied to a stone. Tightening, tightening. We don’t know how to live like we want to. We swing in the sun with bruises on our legs. We laugh and draw while retelling our trauma. We repeat our words for the confirmation that somebody heard us. We repeat our words for the confirmation that somebody heard us. We are either numb or can’t move with the tar of our emotions. Everything is shared sometimes.

I reflect on this when I trace the silver on my skin, etching my issues with flesh and blood. Only am I satisfied when liquid pools and the red shines through. It is a clean line on my skin that I cherish for a time, feeling free. It is only temporary though as when I come back to reality and the guilt settles, falling deep inside of me. It makes my secret. I would tell you what I did if I knew you would not stop me. This is my confession, mama, I don’t know how to change the way I am. It’s my personal enemies who have built this foundation on cruelty in my head, easing me into the violence. I just hate the way everything hurts sometimes.

I‘m sorry.