I watched my family grow and break in that house.
Little barns for playing hide and seek turned into hiding, hoping
never to be found
and forest games of tree creatures turned into alone and breaking
in the highest branches,
deciding whether it would be a good idea to fall
and break my outside to match.
Matches on the pottery wheel looked so much of unsteady faith
and I grew to love that memory
of running through a muddy grass field,
sinking my flesh into nails left by forgetful builders.
When my sister first got drunk,
the big screen window was torn wisps in the hot night air and I felt
that it took away my ability to breath right like I used to
at age seven, shallow pools in my grumbling belly, but
I built a circle of twigs in the woods
and sat inside it for a long time,
believing that I had made a line that only I could cross-
that it was me, just me
and everything beyond meant **** that I wasn't supposed to
think about.
Age ten was when I first fell to that place
where dreams look like death escapes
and ambulance sirens sound like the kind of music
you aren't supposed to listen to twice,
because the lyrics will just make you feel bad about yourself.
I never connected the way I grew up
with all the ways you tore yourself apart,
but I hated how you related to the world
because my relationship with you was too tired,
barely even trying,
and hoping that the painting turns out anyway.
I watched my family grow and break in that house.
I held it between my teeth like wheat-grass,
just barely keeping my country cool,
and making sure the crickets didn't hear me crying
each night to the dirt and sweating moss.
Writing personal narratives in English class, subject a place we grew up. Recalling past feelings makes move so slowly through the day. Who knows if I'll get this paper done on time.