Evaporation

Don't know why, there's no sun up in the sky.
Stormy weather.
Since my man and I ain't together...
And I wish that it would rain.
It has been months since I've prayed,
but I found myself kneeling on the ground in the dirt
just asking God why I couldn't be kneeling in mud.
I need that rain.
Need the slow trickle to paint my face raw,
Need that deep downpour to drown out the demons.
Need to be reminded that water still evaporates into sky.
That sky, still grows heavy into clouds.
And that I'm not the only one who isn't strong enough to bear the weight anymore.
I wish that I had a boiling point.
That there was some degree of stress where I could stop feeling the fire.
Where I would simply begin to escape.
Escape toward the sun.
And all the beautiful pieces of me could just float up there,
Carelessly basking in the freedom of release.
Slowly, all the broken parts would be mended.
All the cuts and bruises, they would heal.
And all my insecurities and doubts would be left behind.
I wish God made me a cloud.
I wish I wasn't such a hurricane,
leaving scars on the surfaces of those that I loved.
I loved you.
Loved you so much, I thought you were my Sun.
Never thought you'd be the fire I'd need to escape from.
Even to the end, your kisses felt like rays of sunshine.
And even though the heat felt a bit too strong,
I could never read the signs that you were burning me.
I have trouble sleeping.

And although the dreams do not come easy,

The nightmares always find their way to me.

They must know the shortcuts of my mind back and forth.

I wish I could have a map of yours—

Your shortcuts.

Wish I could build a bouquet of memories to remind you.

Remind you why I'm worth weathering the storm.

Because I am.

Although I may not be a cloud,
I would have been your Sun any day.
But now,
I can only wish for the gift of evaporation.
Mmmmm...
Keeps rainin' all the time.
I'm so weary all the time.

Days.

Every day that I wake up, it's a gamble.
Will I be my Mother, or my Father today.
My Mother has daisies for eyes, and you should really see her dance.
On my Mother Days, I'm full of sunflowers,
I breathe rainbows and hand out harmonies like free samples.
My Mother gets paid to spend time in the clouds,
So on my Mother Days, I like to join her and take everyone else with me.
I swear to you, I've got wings and when they flutter
You can't help but mutter about all of the lovely in me.
I tend to radiate giggles, and if you ask me what I'd like to do,
I'd never be able to tell you.
On my Mother Days, I want to do everything.
Skip stones across the river of Styx,
and laugh in the face of Hades because,
Well, I'm no Persephone.
On my Mother Days, I'm Athena and Aphrodite's love child.
Glamorously Self-Governed and so full of desire,
and even more full of the will to achieve it.
Because my Mother can do anything.
And on my Mother Days, so can I.
But other days, other days I drag myself down.
My Father has eyes that have seen too much.
My Father wakes up with headaches.
And on my Father Days, so do I.
My Father drinks coffee without tasting it,
Takes pills without swallowing.
He throws Christmas trees into pools and watches Fox News.
He stashes guns in his closets and prays to the Founding Fathers.
My Father's Father was abusive physically.
My Father prefers the emotional route.
On my Father Days, I become a psychological murderer.
I become blind to reality and see only a tunnel vision of madness.
My Father's blood runs angry in his veins.
Angry at my mother for her success and happiness.
Angry at my brother for his success and wealth.
Angry at his daughter for not letting him get away with his crimes against her.
Angry at her the most.
And on my Father Days, I'm angry at him.
Angry at him for ruining any family we ever had.
Angry at him for making my 23-year-old brother cry.
Angry at him for exiling me from my own home.
Angry at him for taking bite-sized chunks out of my self-confidence and
Angry at him for choosing not to get help.
But angry at him most for constantly trying to straightjacket my Mother into submitting to his selfish need to be better than her. For turning her dreams into a nightmare. For making her home a dungeon, for alienating her family, for hating her daughter, for constantly trying to drag her down with him.
But she won't be dragged down.
And on my Mother Days, neither will I.
My Mother has the strongest soul that I know.
My Mother will make it through this.
Through him.
Even if I have to carry her.
Because no matter what day it is,
Mother or Father,
I want to be like my Mother.
Because my Mom is my best friend.
And more than anything,
I want to live my life like her.
Full of spirit and strength.
I want her blood to run through my veins.
I want it to overpower the anger, the hatred, and the betrayal.
But I know it will take time,
So for now, please bear with me.
Until my Mother Days become simply days.
Days with no name and no anger.
Days full of happiness and adventures.
Days where you don't see my resemblance to him.
Because hopefully someday, there will be none.

Blood

My mother is my best friend.
She's got daisies in her eyes and you should really see her dance.
She spent her childhood standing still for only two years at a time.
A military brat, she was uprooted and uprooted until she dug her roots into the sky.
But then in her minimum wage high school job,
A waitress at Burger King,
Her eyes locked on a stoned cashier.
My father.
Three years later, that youthful gaze became a youthful marriage.
My father cleaned up to take to the skies for the Air Force,
But then he didn't make it.
With my brother and I, mouths wide open waiting for him to carry his weight,
He and my mother dug deep roots in the desert.
My father found a high paying office job where he couldn't take to the skies himself.
He was in charge of monitoring the grand satellites he'd built do it without him.
My mother taught pre-school.
Spent her days wiping other children's snot only to come home to her own snotty children.
And her own jaded husband.
My father grew sicker,
But I never noticed.
And suddenly, I was an adult.
I was following my dreams.
And my mother followed suit.
She quit her job to do what she'd always dreamed of,
She took to the sky.
A flight attendant, she could do everything she does best.
Take care of others, and go on adventures.
And she did, and she still does.
But my father still simply monitors the skies,
Never soaring himself.
Getting sicker every day.
His blood is angry.
Angry for the abuse his father laid upon him.
Angry for the madness that seeps into his veins.
Angry for the failure of his aspirations.
Angry at his inspiring wife for succeeding where he was defeated.
Angry at his successful son for finding a passion and getting paid for it.
Angry at his independent daughter for choosing not to let his crimes against her go unnoticed.
Angry at her the most.