I think back on my past self often. Of that
little girl,
A bit shy but outgoing once you get to know her. I smile,
She made a lot of friends, or at least acquaintances,
Or at least people to talk to,
Or at least people who tolerated.
It was something. It was better than nothing.
I think back to the in-between child, confused by their own weight,
And in the world, having impact, by what means?
Unsure of themself, unsure of everyone around them.
Distrust ran high like fever in the summer.
It took many winters to kill that germinating seed.
So, I thought, would I be able to raise her?
Would I be able to take my whittling knife up,
Carve away the hurt, smooth out the wrinkles?
Make it all right again?
"Make it alright again?"
Bandages cover. Surgeries cut.
My child self cries; she is alone.
She only wanted to be human like every other child,
But it seems there was a bump along the road.
Oh, poor, poor child. Oh, pitiable child.
I wonder, could I have saved the inevitable?
Is that what spurs me to have a child of my own?
The smiling son, the giggling daughter?
Is it beyond biological urge, is it something almost religious?
If I could raise that child right, would it just be to prove a point?
"Our Lord in Heaven,
Though my family raised me wrong,
Raised me ugly and fucked up,
Even if they didn't intend to,
I still came out of the other end of the mill
(Though ground unto fine dust)
And I was able to give the world my own.
And Amen."
I carved my path through my own hand.
Today, tomorrow, and always.
Everything ends. Though, I decide when.