Heartstrings

Irritated,

my dad’s need for perfection

blows steam through my ears.

As does his ordering of the universe,

come through my hands

when I create.

The fear of lust and violation

flow through my blood, like

my mom’s lectures of those sins

flow through my head.

You see, I inherited his lack of communication

and her faintheartedness,

and I am a combination of

sea green waters and bright red rocks,

a cascade of art and literature,

with a vague feeling of what the right things to do are.

And as the ache of loneliness and longing

pull on my heartstrings,

I mull over the question

of whether those heartstrings are really mine.

Does the fear, the pain, the lack of communication,

the fixation of deflecting the damnation,

Is that a part of who I am?

Or was it given to me,

and I can let it go?