Stories From Growing Up: like me despite your rage

Someone spilled Coke on the couch cushion. The wicker based, floral cushioned couch in the first rental we lived in. We had been left alone for a while.

I meant to be proactive and I was tired of the chaos of no one watching. I knocked on the door and it didn’t open. I mentioned the couch and went back to my things.

What the fuck.

Some for you,

Some for you,

He grabbed more Coke to pour over our heads, over toys on the floor, over everything.

Words, over and over. The way I started to laugh at first, thinking he was being funny. No.

I sat in the puddle, assessing the mess as he called us names. We damaged things, a tiny spill like the ocean I guess.

The puzzle in the floor was soaked, fraying picture from the wood, by the time he was done.

He said, clean it up.

So I tried to hide my shame and fault. I cleaned eagerly, trying for approval, coke still dripping out of my hair.

031

Sighs into sighs,
cradled by mountains and lies
say we’re absolved by closing our eyes
but we’re still seeing the brights of the sky
still pleading for a break from responsibility,
from owning my iridescence

no, I never thought I peaked
but I thought I was better than this,
assuming that we’d both take the heat
no, I’m not better than this

I hate my caricature, this mess,
no rejoice when you think of me now
I was a quaking mess, I confess
now I’m your worst-case, at best

I hate to understand you
when I don’t want to,
hate that I split this,
and now I can’t fix this

I’m trying, holding steady
ridges like tightropes
toeing the line,
false eminence, I know,
I’m no better than this.