It Doesn’t Have To Be Like This.

Family, Fear, Internal Poetry, Poetry, Questions, Societal Poetry

It doesn’t have to be like this.

Unpacking the car, this is one of the first things I say to myself.

My mind is too wrapped up to sort out the layers of how different the connection between here and there is.

I love my mother. I love my family. I love the life I’ve lived and the places I’ve been to.

I see my mother. I see my family. I fear to see the life I’ve lived.

My eyes strain themselves from looking through their eyes.

I wish for the peace of a home by the forest, connecting and creating ad infinitum.

The conifers to draw and the bird songs to learn.

A little bit of space to sink into, learn, and fall in love with.

I’ve been growing like a sapling in compost towards the sun I feel gracing my pores,

Constructing my layers and growing my frequency to achieve something beyond human.

The life of now isn’t anything the me of sixteen could have dreamed of.

But I’m back again, in the bedroom of the person I tried so hard to escape.

I’m sleeping with the shadows and memories of myself.

I’m falling into the same frustrating cycles with my loved ones,

Knee-jerk reactions of “fine, I know, and okay” come flooding back to my thoughtful head like accidental expletives. There is no accidental expletive, as with any normalized curse.

I can feel my form shrinking, I long for open fields and skies to meditate in an under.

I long to be away from fresh-reintroduced trauma of a past I never lived to know.

But in a matter of time, I’ll be back to forgetting.