Riding bikes, playing tag, and chasing the ice cream truck down the street. It feels like a dream. I always think of the what if’s, I always daydream of another reality. A broken family, I was assigned to them, intentionally. My mother, I love her dearly. My Father, I admire him, his work mainly. They created me. They named me Ashley. So why did they hate me? Was it purposely? No, I cannot blame them, it was inevitable. My mother came with a package to her wedding. HER SON! I had not met her son for about nine years, I regret getting on that plane. I gotta keep reminding myself it is a “****** if I do, ****** if I don’t.” situation. I shouted “PLEASE!” I screamed “STOP!” and I always wondered why me? I was nine years old; he was nineteen. I do not shed tears anymore, but I did develop a borderline personality. I was nine years old; I should not have to be wondering. But I wondered why everyone abandoned me. I wondered why my innocence was taken away; very abruptly, so suddenly. He is family; that is disgusting, but he said he loved me. Yes, no one believed me. My mother’s package came with instructions; instructions that were not legibly, but who am I to speak on that? A nine-year-old, who rode bikes, loved playing tag, and chased ice cream trucks down the street; a nine-year-old who then developed a borderline personality.
A poem from a chapbook I wrote.