it’s been years
seated inside myself, executing some small examination. made larger with
emphases, made condemnation over mother, with no wish of full disclosure in me.
an endless angst of running to self, forced into margins; an argument above its
measure, debating time—in chronological order. too soon for an autobiography,
nor interested in physical death, more closure might come as a phantom. often
long winded, where a lady taught concision, while precision is seen with awe,
capturing, made simplistic, yet, complex in delivery.
I’d unpack a
cedarchest, to find a letter, in its charisma, it was climatic. what would
prove the catalyst, aside for curiosity, where are granny’s poems—the dark blue
skies, the morning trains, the lovers and madmen?
granny wasn’t
cautious. men did as they wished. those liaisons were cruel—they opened greenhorn
jars.
it isn’t full
disclosure time. it’ll never be a place for every gruesome memory, every
vicarious rape, every person faced with unease and molestation. (but), I can
tell a story of sickness, three, four generations—why is it ubiquitous? I read,
didn’t see. I fed, didn’t eat. all at once, it hit harder than bricks: the
manipulation, the dragging of a human, the intent to do harm, despite, inward
signals; to have ignored common decency, to overpower and laugh, these are sick
people, with unfiltered inclinations. family survived! sullen, feeling cursed,
with relentless photographs slamming up against psyches. the end is the
beginning.
