Ad Matrem

What she did became truncated statements,
Small portions of my life
Separated and made into little boxes which described it.
One by one I handed you these truncated boxes,
Along with a box of my own tears.
The entire story too harsh for bathroom sitting.
And as I sat on the toilet,
And as the years went by,
I handed you these truncated statements
Coupled and forever married to apologies.

I'm sorry I didn't know.
I'm sorry I couldn't stop it.
If I could have, I would have.
And as these estranged apologies fell from my tongue,
They crept across your bathroom floor,
And up your pristine legs,
And through your skin,
Tanned by those days with her,
And sunk into your heart.

God, your heart.
So great and elaborate,
With these caves of pure forgiveness,
And things of the like I shall never understand.
I blackened it, and charred it, and made it sad
With those truncated statements I didn't understand.
I'm sorry.

And here I go again,
Apologizing for her.
And there you go again,
Apologizing for her.
We did nothing to her.
And you did nothing wrong to me.
You see, it is detrimental to my survival that you understand that.

If only you could understand this.
Your guilt traps me like Odysseus,
In between Sicily and Italy.
I made your heart into that guilty place.

Would that I hadn't said a thing.
Would that I had kept in inside.
Then maybe you wouldn't be so sad.
I'm sorry I made you sad.
If I knew that your guilt would overpower you like this,
I would have used a stapler on my own mouth;
Would that I were Philomela,
I would cut off my hands so that I might not weave you that story.

You always say, "Trash in. Trash out."
And make some comment about my reality television shows.
The reality is, the drama around Kim Zolsiack
or the war between Kelly Killoren Bensimon and Bethenny Frankle
Is not trash compared to what I know.

Trash is being berated at the age of three.
Trash is indoctrinating the Godly ideal of anorexia in a five year old.
Trash is telling a child that his or her father is good for nothing.
Trash is telling a child that his or her mother is not that smart.
Trash is telling your granddaughter that she is a bad mother.
Trash is bringing your children to tears,
And walking away with a smile.
The lies she said,
The stories she created,
The lives she crippled,
That is trash.
Trash is she.
And you surround yourself with trash every single day.
Trash in. Trash out.

M&M's in my Oatmeal

I think you would be proud
That is, if you really knew a thing about me,
But perhaps not, for no one ever knows what type of being is dwelling in your heart.
Is it that evil dragon, whose forked tongue left eternal cuts and scrapes all over my body?
Or is it that elderly woman, just seeking love?
Regardless, I think I am probably the only one who doesn't care which one you are.
To me, you are always the former.
But I do think that you would be proud of me;
That is, after all, all I ever wanted from you.
You would be proud to know that I eat M&M's in my oatmeal.
I don't fit into my jeans.
But don't worry, I am working on bulking up so I fill them out.
I am teetering on getting a B in Geology,
But don't worry, it may get worse.
I am still a disgrace, because I am going to be a teacher.
I will never touch your decrepit face with my ugly hands.
That's probably for the best.
You would be proud, because I weigh 120 lbs.
If you don't remember, that's about 30 more than what you instilled in me as "good".
Also, I break my food into tiny pieces to make it look like I ate more when I have finished a meal.
You'd be proud of that too, I imagine.
Understanding your mind is like understanding the Gordian Knot.
I won't unravel you.
I just know that you would be proud,
And proud in the most antonymical way there is.

The tents you made under the bed
And the games of imaginary basketball played in your living room
(God forbid I jump too high and cause one of your perfectly aligned crystals to move off of its perfectly cleaned glass plate.)
They are over.
No more visits.
No more Mexican Train.
You're out of my life.
But that's not true, because you have my life.
You hold my childhood in your hands,
Blackened by the evils of your words.
You slowly pulled the threads out every day
When we would take that ominous walk to your wedding photographs.
They say, or I should say he, he being Dr. Barton, a psychiatrist, says
That you have no control.
But I give you control.
You probably don't know this, but I am sure that you would be proud,
I can't imagine my life before your dragon claws tore into my prepubescent stomach,
Already overrun and fattened by M&M's in my oatmeal.
But don't worry.
I'll be at that altar someday.
And he will love me regardless of that number on a scale you once made seem equal to the presence of God in a church
But you won't see any of that,
Because I wouldn't want you to know that you were wrong.

So here I am,
About seventeen years after your indoctrination,
And I'm not okay.
You would be proud of that:
Proud in the truest sense there is.