Jun 2014
My fingers,
they tremble.
But no more do they tremor then
my grandmother in her bed,
because the surreptitious secret that is held
in between her legs threatens her every second.
When I was younger I had wished to be an actor,
on a large stage, for when I saw a picture of her in her younger years,
I could have sworn she was in movies.
But now it hits me ,
that the only stage she will ever see
is 4.
And it breaks me,
and cuts holes into my chest,
likes the holes in my closet door from my outlashes.
I wonder if I could have cut holes into my grandfathers chest,
maybe his lungs wouldn't have filled with so much fluid.
And while it causes my hands to tremble,
it causes my lips to quiver,
because maybe if they didn't I would have been able to
put my spoon down.
Maybe the angry neighborhood girl
wouldn't have told me to down another bottles of pills,
but I did because the refrigerator was empty,
and the emptiness in my stomach
had spread to my chest.
I wonder if my cousins would have been nicer.
I always looked up to my father,
so by the time I was in the sixth grade and I could fit into his shirts,
I felt like a man myself.
Don't tell me my grandmother will make it to my graduation,
because she can't even get out of bed.
Don't tell me I didn't get to see my grandfathers face at his open casket,
because of a math test.
Why is it that my father spends more time in front of a television,
than having a conversation with me?
Why is that at 14 I had no place to call home besides
the bottom of a pill bottle?
God tell me,
why my grandmother not make it to my birthday?
God tell me,
why doesn't my father remember my birthday?
God tell me,
why didn't my grandfather make it to my birthday?
God tell me,
why had I made it to my birthday,
that my grandfather never got to see me on stage,
because the day of the performance,
he was ashes,
and urns can't make it to performances?
God tell me,
why are my fingers gripping bottles of earthquakes,
and my throat is the pacific ocean?
Are these earthquakes the reason I can not find the courage to speak up
when spoken to?
Why I can't trust pretty girls, because the most beautiful
I've ever seen is laying in a hospital bed?
Health problems run in my family,
and I wonder when I'll be too slow to get away.
Because hide and seek is not just a playground game,
but it is played every day in high school.
And why do those with trembling fingers
find their throats to be the pacific ocean when gripping
bottles of eathquakes,
why do they find their necks perfect to swing by,
why they believe they must be native americans
because every day they open their arms to let the bad spirits out?
God tell me,
when will my fingers stop trembling?
they tremble.
But no more do they tremor then
my grandmother in her bed,
because the surreptitious secret that is held
in between her legs threatens her every second.
When I was younger I had wished to be an actor,
on a large stage, for when I saw a picture of her in her younger years,
I could have sworn she was in movies.
But now it hits me ,
that the only stage she will ever see
is 4.
And it breaks me,
and cuts holes into my chest,
likes the holes in my closet door from my outlashes.
I wonder if I could have cut holes into my grandfathers chest,
maybe his lungs wouldn't have filled with so much fluid.
And while it causes my hands to tremble,
it causes my lips to quiver,
because maybe if they didn't I would have been able to
put my spoon down.
Maybe the angry neighborhood girl
wouldn't have told me to down another bottles of pills,
but I did because the refrigerator was empty,
and the emptiness in my stomach
had spread to my chest.
I wonder if my cousins would have been nicer.
I always looked up to my father,
so by the time I was in the sixth grade and I could fit into his shirts,
I felt like a man myself.
Don't tell me my grandmother will make it to my graduation,
because she can't even get out of bed.
Don't tell me I didn't get to see my grandfathers face at his open casket,
because of a math test.
Why is it that my father spends more time in front of a television,
than having a conversation with me?
Why is that at 14 I had no place to call home besides
the bottom of a pill bottle?
God tell me,
why my grandmother not make it to my birthday?
God tell me,
why doesn't my father remember my birthday?
God tell me,
why didn't my grandfather make it to my birthday?
God tell me,
why had I made it to my birthday,
that my grandfather never got to see me on stage,
because the day of the performance,
he was ashes,
and urns can't make it to performances?
God tell me,
why are my fingers gripping bottles of earthquakes,
and my throat is the pacific ocean?
Are these earthquakes the reason I can not find the courage to speak up
when spoken to?
Why I can't trust pretty girls, because the most beautiful
I've ever seen is laying in a hospital bed?
Health problems run in my family,
and I wonder when I'll be too slow to get away.
Because hide and seek is not just a playground game,
but it is played every day in high school.
And why do those with trembling fingers
find their throats to be the pacific ocean when gripping
bottles of eathquakes,
why do they find their necks perfect to swing by,
why they believe they must be native americans
because every day they open their arms to let the bad spirits out?
God tell me,
when will my fingers stop trembling?
