Deep Regrets

I took a lot for granted.
I sometimes regret rushing to grow up, rushing to become more independent than I already was. I didn't soak in the memories like I should have. I should've stopped myself and considered where I was in life, and what I had in front of me, that I don't anymore.

I miss sitting with my mother and my sister, especially on the good days. Just us girls, no random men walking through the doors and destroying our home. Just us, our little broke family. We would talk about the day we had, banter back and forth, listening to each other laugh.

I miss cooking with my mother, digging in the garden with her, and sitting on the porch in the mornings. I should've admired my her more, took the time to really look at her when she was healthier. She's not that old, but her decisions have been made and now I fear for our futures. Her dark golden hair was once long and feathered, a 1970s style that was curled to perfection, now thinning with age and stress. Her dark, tan skin use to be full of life, cheeks blushing with orneriness and laugher. Now paper like and thin, it hangs loose on her febele body, clinging to her bones. She's never been this skinny before. Her health is gradually declining with age. She once had the spirit of a biting mare, daring anyone to test her and her family. That fire is now just a spark, a barely pulsing coal in the dark embers.

I should've held my Grammy's hand more. Her soft, velvet skin was dotted with sun spots, long nails always glistening with polish. She smelt of Tabu and baby powder, a scent that once filled my lungs with warmth, now wrenches my heart in a cold, steel fist. The regret and loneliness is sickening. I should not have complained about going to church, I should've sung loud and proud next to her in the pews. I should've worked on those puzzles with her, those endless puzzles that would take weeks to finish, covering the kitchen table. She was so proud of them. I should've taken her hand to danced to the Cleftotes and the Crests, an old DooWop CD that once drove me crazy.
The devil has now stolen her memory, the memories of us, and soon her breath. The disease runs through our blood, and soon my mother will fall prey, too.

My father. A fading echo, a beautiful life that was stolen from us. My biggest regret and freshest wound, no matter the number of years. I remember how he walked, and how he use to carry himself; prideful yet humble. He had a tattoo on his shoulder, a flag that I use to trace when I was little, faded from sunlight exposure. His scent was sharp and spicy, his jade eyes sparking his ornery smile, a character trait that I carry. He wore his shirts tucked into his jeans, ironed and pressed by my mother, and sometimes me, when I was around to help. He was adventurous. He was a hard working man, fighting long and hard to keep my family afloat. He will never be forgotten.
He was supposed to be there to see me buy my first truck, to listen to her engine roar, and to save me when she practically died on the highway. He was supposed to be here to see the acceptance letter, to see me beaming with excitement, my dream since sophomore year finally becoming reality. But I was left to swallow my happiness and tears, simply nodding with smothered satisfaction and tucking the letter away for another day. Another day when I'm stronger. He was supposed to tell me tales of his childhood, giving me the opportunity to learn more about him and our bloodline. I hardly know the man that raised me for a short time. But I see him in me, in my characteristics, habits and ticks. I see him in his old friends that I run into every once in a while, remembering the good times we shared. I see him in my fading mother, knowing that her heart hurts more than mine ever will. She has the memories, while I have the pictures, the short lived happiness frozen in time. Framed and cherished. I regret fearing him. What was there to fear? The screaming, the anger? I should have beared it, I should have just hugged the man and told him I loved him, for Christ's sake, that could have saved him. He was loved, he had family and friends that cherished him. I should have given him more attention instead of hiding, I should have sat with him longer when he cried, when he was broken and hurting. I should've stopped the fights. I should not have rejected him. Maybe he would still be here. Maybe the other men would stop trying to replace him, stop trying to come into our home, our lives, and ruin everything. If I could hear his voice one last time, breathe in his scent, hold onto him a little longer, maybe the wound will finally heal, and stop throbbing.

I should have sat in the saddle longer. I should've let go of the reins and rode slower. I should've took the long way home in my truck, listening to her engine and enjoyed those drives through the mountains. I should've layed in the sun longer and breathed in the Earth. I should have stopped myself, in those small moments, and listened. Really listened. I should've slowed down and breathed. But I didn't. And now, it's too late.

Oppressor

Do you know it hurts?
     I want to forgive you and love you again. I want to forget all the ways I was disrespected, the ways I was stretched. But forgiveness won't change a person. I know this, but there were days I couldn't help myself. I've torn my heart in order to give pieces to you when you needed them. I can see the good in you. I want to believe in you, but as I touch that wound, I reopen the memories. It's far from mending. There's no comfort in going back to you.
     I need to heal on my own. I won't heal with my oppressor.

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.


- Philip Larkin

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A part of me yearns to reach out to her, to understand her.

I shouldn't lose my breath when our eyes meet.
I shouldn't write poems about how her eyes siphon my breath.
I shouldn't itch to see that smile.

Because she is not mine.
She is not someone I should reach for.

My Depression - A Rock and a Hard Place

"I've never viewed my depression as an emotion. And not as something that has an end or a beginning. It just is. It has a shape and a weight. Not jagged or smooth. Not always big and not always small. Somewhere in between. Something hard and solid, like a rock. Sometimes it is as light as a pebble, able to be flicked off at the slightest notice. Sometimes it's ground into flecks of sand, barely noticeable and brushed away as quickly as it settles in. Other times it's a boulder with a crushing weight. One that feels immovable. Something you cannot get your arms around to move out of the way. And, at times, it is a mountain. An impossible obstacle in your path that you lack the energy to trek around, to climb over, or to tunnel beneath. And at the worst times, it may even beckon you to jump from it's summit."





Hall, Megan Kelley. "My Depression - A Rock and a Hard Place". Life Inside My Mind, edited by Jessica Burkhart, Simon Pulse, 2018, p. 177-178

I'm Sorry

It hit so hard.
I pushed it away and tried to ignore it.
Completely paranoid.
I tried to ignore what I was doing to you, to us.
My biggest fear is losing you.
You can scream at me, disown me, cry to me.
I just couldn't watch them take you away.
But what have I done?

I made this worse.
I just want to make you proud.
I want to show you that you raised a strong woman.
But how can I be strong when I can't stand up to you?
I wish I could go back and change something, anything.
Anything to make this better.
I want to take care of you.
I have nothing left, I gave it all to you.

I'm sorry that I let you down.
Hurt me as much as you need.
I'll be okay.
Because I can't lose you.
I'm just embarrassed for you. 

Lost

I'm lost.
I don't feel at home anymore.
No matter where I go,
Who I'm with,
Where I'm at,
I always want to leave.
I don't feel welcome.

I can't go where I use to call home.
I simply refuse,
Even if it hurts.
They ask me why,
Why not just go back?
And without delving too deep,
I say, "Because of what's happening."
The situations that won't resolve.

I'm not trapped anymore,
Like I use to be.
Just lost.