Day sixteen – Weighted Breaths, for th and prompt, ‘balloons shaped like anchors’.
We’re in the second half already! How time flies!
How’s your April going?
I say I can’t in the morning
You say you won’t in the afternoon
-We both can
I tell you I’m home
When the sidewalk
Is where I am
You tell me you’re waiting
When you’re already gone
I pretend to be forlorn
Five years from today
Is decided by a tomorrow
The rest of our lives,
Like the day after
You call me slut
And I call you chutiya
And we pretend there wasn’t a bite
To those words
Some days we play well
Some days we don’t go home
Quite the same
I wonder how long we’ll walk away unscathed
Back and forth in this game
Where we change all the names
Day Thirteen- for the prompt by the exceptional J.R. Rogue- the game in which we change the names.
It was like learning how to pray
How folded hands and murmured words
Led to understanding the truth
Hidden behind empty gestures
That God was not the property of
It was like recognizing injury
Palpating for wounded feelings, verbally
Cautiously probing what prodded
People to lash out, unreserved
That I was not to blame, it
Was not deserved
It was every instance of healing
Every time I consciously, heathenly withdrew
Every time I groped for an answer
Smiling at what I knew was untrue
With the short term memory
of the broken and the uneasy
the flawed and the restless
the faceless unnamed
the damaged and the lamed,
It comes as a taste of the glorious
a recognition of your own holiness
Like a mouthful of sunshine, every time
That you relearn happiness
I’d like to think that I’ve outgrown this phase of my life. You know, when you’re young, and incidents like this haunt you for days. Getting older has helped me become remarkably thick skinned. Sometimes, some things manage to pierce through, though.
I like to think that I’m unafraid. That I’m stronger, ballsier, in-fucking-destructible. Maybe I am, sometimes. Other times, I am not. When I stay up at night, after all the lights are off, and then sit on my bed in the dark and comb my hair, I am not. In that moment I am back to being a scared sixteen year old, who’s father cut her long hair off because it might attract boys. I forget to look in the mirror while getting dressed sometimes. Because somewhere, I’m still that girl who never had a full length mirror in the house, because she wasn’t supposed to think about her appearance.
I’m still that girl who wakes up in the middle of the night at the slightest nudge of the bedroom door, because I haven’t outgrown my fear of the people who live behind it.
I may be a lot of things, but more than anything else, I am caged. Im struggling to redefine myself, to reprogram myself, to lose the conditioning I was given every day of my life. Some days, I like to think that I’ve walked far away enough. But fact remains that at the end of the day I have to turn back, and head back to my charade of a home.
And that is the true meaning of being trapped.