My mother made a slide
show for my grandfather’s funeral,
and I would stand in silence,
observing the process, and she
pushed me aside
as if she was hiding a secret between
the words she had typed
onto that empty page and
she did not want me to look beyond the letters.
The remains of the words,
I can still see them distantly
carved into my skin,
leaving me powerless sitting near you.
I thought you held fire in your hands, so
every time you tried to touch me,
I always
back away
back away
back away from you.
I thought your touch would burn me
with your escalating rage.
The flames would rise, glowing in your eyes,
defeating my flesh with verbal abuse.
The release of heat
and light sparking from your
creeping chemical fingertips.
I don’t know how to swim, and
she has been tying the weights
of grief to my feet,
and I have been drowning
and gasping for one
true breath of air.
And yes they tell me anger,
anger is a secondary emotion.
It follows the loneliness
sadness
fear
This anger is a fire that she keeps fueling.
I expand with my words
written with worry inside of lined pages, and
she shrinks me down
into a size I do not want to wear.