I imagine you're disappointed in me. I can't say I blame you. It is not my fault that I didn't become the laborer you dreamt I'd be, split palms stung by sweat. It is my fault, however, that I became nothing at all.
Our family was defined by a cardboard box. Your job was to move them, hundreds an hour. My brothers and I were raised by a box that puked The King Of Queens and censored 90's dramas. My mother buried Polaroids of frozen dance moves and eternal smiles, under fake jewelry in a cheap cherry box.
And when I carried the box that ate my grandfather, I showed no stuggle, tucked in my shirt, not wanting to embarass you.
And when I forgot the Sea Bass belt, I promised not to **** myself with, in a box at the ward.
And when I carried the box that sealed my grandmother.
And when I burnt the box of letters she wrote from far and away; trying to erase who I was.
I think I have let you down, father. I can only offer myself the way I'd offer a box: disappointing on the outside with a chance of beauty in the inside, if you're willing to open up.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC
I imagine you're disappointed in me. I can't say I blame you. It is not my fault that I didn't become the laborer you dreamt I'd be, split palms stung by sweat. It is my fault, however, that I became nothing at all.
Our family was defined by a cardboard box. Your job was to move them, hundreds an hour. My brothers and I were raised by a box that puked The King Of Queens and censored 90's dramas. My mother buried Polaroids of frozen dance moves and eternal smiles, under fake jewelry in a cheap cherry box.
And when I carried the box that ate my grandfather, I showed no stuggle, tucked in my shirt, not wanting to embarass you.
And when I forgot the Sea Bass belt, I promised not to **** myself with, in a box at the ward.
And when I carried the box that sealed my grandmother.
And when I burnt the box of letters she wrote from far and away; trying to erase who I was.
I think I have let you down, father. I can only offer myself the way I'd offer a box: disappointing on the outside with a chance of beauty in the inside, if you're willing to open up.
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