I picked myself up

By Rain - Anonymous Student at VWU

I picked myself up. That bubbling happy child now chirps his words into the glistening moonlight, unto the stars, the planets, the moon.

And then even deeper into the earth he roams, he floats he soars he forages he hunts and bounds and leaps into the breeze.

He is so joyful now, so easygoing, so delighted. I have shown him I fight the good fight.

I fight for him. I fight for me. I fight for us. 

And I do it better than he ever could, because he is a child. And children are not meant to fight.

He is meant to be free

And he is

And I am

And we are

And Mother, I have grown far beyond the clutches of my childhood,

And we are living breathing proof.

And Mother, I wish– truth be told to you– for it is not in me to lay my words down for the sake of breath anymore– I wish I could not address you.

I wish I would not think to speak your name, Mother.

Those words, they do not hurt as they once did.

They do not launch out of my throat with rocks and steel, with a mightful poison that trickles my tears into rot.

I do not rot any more Mother, I know you wish I would.

And I know you would say otherwise,

But I know you better than you know yourself.

In many many ways I wish I did not, but I do, so let’s not spend time wishing on the past.

That is not for us to do anymore.

The past is in the setting of the suns, and it always rises, so let us face it with an air of grace.

Let us face a new day, Mother.

Let us face each other now.

Though you may not see me,

I have always been here, waiting. In spite of myself...

I cannot untether the blood that you’ve fed my veins, much like I cannot rescrew the head that is on your neck.

And you are a hideous creature that I once spoke monstrous, because the language of humans is so peculiar.

I do not speak of monsters as the modern era speaks them. 

I speak “monster” from a past era. Some say the word also closely resides with “portent.”

An omen. 

And Mother, you were my grand Omen. When my feet were small and my hands squishy, like sour gummy worms stained in grass and dirt, I saw you. And children do not have words to describe what I saw. So he must ask me to translate, and I shall do my best. 

You were a little ball of sunlight in the center, sure, just like many people are

little balls of sunlight protected by some outer morale, some self-actualization, some coating or other.

And you coated yourself in bugs and beetles and slugs and snares. 

You hated all of those things about yourself, and you shed your ugly skins onto the soft carpets of our house,

never a home. 

Your wails and moans echoed through my ears, 

your complaints, your contradictions.

You slithered around like a frantic bird,

like a headless chicken, with feathers from

some other bird sticking out of your stump,

flaunting them around like a peacock, asking me if you looked fat. 

You were always beside yourself,

always squawking at the middle man, always criticizing your husband. My Father. 

You yelled and you screamed, 

and with each word you spayed onto the walls, I respected you less and less.

I thought…poorly of you.

You would creep into my room at night

with hushed sounds and your beady little eyes,

and you would whisper to me like a child with candy stuck in her throat. 

Spraying canine bubble gum and

shitty sprinkles onto my sheets and the roses of my cheeks. 

Your long, yellow, brittle nails traced the chalkboards in my ears

and made me want to tear my own fingernails off and break my teeth on walls of bricks

and stones. 

Mother, you slithered around the house like a grandiose worm. 

And you would turn on everyone and everything that made you reflect on your ugly self worth.