|Birth To Burial And The Screaming In Between|
A baby born,
the screaming starts-
a mother's scorn
regret, we met at an accident of life
with neither the option
to choose the other.
We were stuck- and not to be subdued...
the screaming continued.
I was sure I hated her,
like some might hate their ruler-
because he hated her,
and for that- she, him.
Thus she hated me and not that
I drew allegiance to my "swim coach",
but because she couldn't look at me
without seeing him too...
the screaming grew.
Now shrinks color me pictures
to explain the way I am-
You're sexist, chauvinist, pessimist
and every other 'ist' to be fathomed,
when really, technically- I'm pissed.
I'm an erasable mistake,
a blemish that could have ended up a stain
on my mother's black mini-skirt thirty years ago...
the screaming echoes.
And then there's white hospital walls,
like blank slates, cubicles of death-
my namesake now a heavy-breathing waterfall
and I myself, no different.
I wait for her to wake and when she does
all the pain of her life,
like a thousand homing knives
shooting through her soul at once,
and she howls through the ceiling...
I miss the screaming.
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