when the moon grows full,
and the rhythms of the night
become still,
I drift into a state of awareness.
my subconscious,
its twists and turns
are of no surprise to me anymore.

i think of my father,
his expression
monotonous,
displeased,
lost all hope
in his beloved
creation.
it beats into
my heart
like crushed
glass against the rocks.

I see my mom,
holding hands
with her husband,
soft,
exhausted
not from a day's work
but from the tears
burning down her eyes.
it is a pain
I inflicted,
one I can never take back.

my regret
is not the
action,
but the execution.

even when given the final
opportunity,
the ultimate chance
to spill my heart
along the wooden
kitchen table,
I constantly
sopped up the mess
with silence.

my resentment
is not the response,
but the recurring
reactions.

believe in me,
dear parents,
cast your eyes
in shame and regret,
but not wavering
in hope and respect.

the same little girl,
in tiny black shoes,
in ribbons and drowning
in stuffed animals,
with an appetite
so finicky
and a pursuit
for the betterment
infinitely growing...
is the same girl that
stood before you
that summer day.

my bitterness
is not towards
your opinion,
but rather your
assumed reasoning.

I did not choose love,
one greater than the other
one more willing to
sacrifice.
I did not choose sides,
father
pitted against
lover.
this is not a 16th
century love story
where I renowned
my name
for the attention
of a Montague.

my demise
will cease to end
here.
it is bound to exist in
constellations,
where dreams are stored.