There’s a certain envy that creeps in—I wish it weren’t true
when they happen across my days,
these light sprinkles of people who know very little about this type of pain.
They’ve never been tied to the fences of fate,
where mothers lash out and fathers forget your birthdate,
or what sits in your body after all these years
after being ripped from a home filled with women who swooned over you, only to be sentenced to a life where the warden says,
No, baby, I love you, yet locks you in a cage.
They only know long summer days,
riding bikes through the streets,
their mothers and fathers waiting patiently—
because that’s what kids do.
They test boundaries, and then they ride back, carefree,
to a hot meal and a chair that stays in place
What it must feel like to be that free.
My envy turns to prayer
that they remain this naïve and never know what it’s like
to be juggled and jumbled,
lied to for the sake of keeping secrets,
held hostage as collateral damage.
To stuff one’s face with love,
because the truest love comes wrapped in conditions.
To know that all laughter, bliss, and earthly possessions
come with a price tag—
to act right, to not step out of line.
I know what it is to walk through emotional landmines,
to be woken up in the middle of the night
Where even your sisters try to hide the very lie—
that they despise your existence.
Truth be told,
I am the walking reminder of a failed marriage,
evidence of deeds done in secret.
Oh, to be free.
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