I saw words pass by,
So quickly
Fluidly,
Practiced.

All across the TV screen.
Talks of how enough was enough with the apartheid.
And at first I was confused-so I observed.

After a minute towards a month,
I noticed the ending of a sentence started by black
That was ended by white tongue

And I felt a twitch come on.
I gritted my teeth and thought
"It is not yours to say enough."

I was in the room when she passed,
We were so worried she'd awaken
Scared and in pain with 5 minutes left.

How do you reconcile 79 years in 5 minutes

I do not know,
So we called for more drugs.

Please ease her passing.
Please.

She quieted,
Heartbeat slower and slowed.
I swallowed.

My tongue wasn't dry,
But my throat felt like it was collapsing.

I did not touch her skin

A prenuptial funeral, held with a living body
In a room full of grieving persons.

I blinked.
59 bpm went to 34
62 then 29
31 beats per minute now.

A piece of me is waiting for her to suddenly stand
And take a bow for the magic trick.
I'm oddly optimistic.

I quietly recognise that I'm never optimistic.

I stared.
24 bpm for 3 seconds now
14 and the alarms have been ringing for ages?
But I've only heard them now.

A hand wraps around my legs.
I feel wetness on my left thigh.
It's my mother.

I haven't seen her cry since I was 5.

12 bpm it screams.
The ventilator kicks up a fuss.
I stare.
If I don't lose a moment, she isn't gone.

No one is coming to save her, the back of my brain said.

9 now.

I swallowed,
It tasted like sawdust and I still refused to cry,
I'd blink.
I can't, I've cried too much already.
My tongue is too large for my throat.

I don't blink as I watch her chest slow.
I can't swallow. My eyes burn. But I wouldn't blink.

Refused to show weakness while my mother sobbed.

0.
I blinked as it struck me,
Like her hand on my shoulders as a send off.
A life has passed, and I forgot to swallow.

My mouth still smelled like sawdust, no matter how many tears I tasted.

I am calm
Most of the time.

I will have many
Questions about basically everything.

I have questions about race
Orientation
Sexuality

For instance, I am Bi
And yet I do not pray upon
Everything I see.

Instead I am quietly defending myself
Mentally.
Sometimes, physically.
A man come too close and I just,
Just shove. I shove as hard as I can

I refuse to feel powerless again.
They shouldn't have gotten so close
Indecent
I'd be a harlot
Jezebel
Since it's always my fault.

I am abrasive now.
I'm curious now.
I'm barely free now.

I ask questions to learn
Yet I am running
I am running from the memory
The memory of my inner child's ******.

I said no
And yet
I had no choice.

It happened anyway.


I never said yes.

He claims he doesn't hate the show.
Just the main character.

I don't think he actually despises it.

I think it reminds him

I am a level of harmful
You state the sky is blue
I see purple, pink, yellow. Light green.
And while I see it is,
WHY is in colour for you

You do not know.
So I fade

I become the voice of reason.

I am tired.
Please, let me
Rest.

I'm so confused
As if belonging in another hemisphere has fried my sense.
My common sense.

I see salt on my car, I ask  "best to get a wash no?"
No, I'm told.
It'll just make it easier for the salt to cling and rust.
Odd, I think.
Very odd, this northern chemistry.

But, okay.
I lose my sense.
I lose my logic.
It's fine, I tell myself. It's fine. It's just for now.

I look at my tires, I say they're a bit low, no?
No, I'm told.
They're perfectly low. Also heres a heaping help of sand.
Could always use more sand, I suppose.
Attacked by house cats, and need some litter.
Got some.

Still I insist, ******* my logic and education.
Just a little air, no? That'd be fine, yeah?

No.

Bit of air now, they'll explode in the warm.
A wash? You'll rust to bits next snowstorm.
I blink, I swallow. I drive, I ponder.
I find I am much too mellow. Much too giving, I was confused. I am not any longer. I'll do it my way, exploding tires or naught.

I came from a literal different continent
I grew up with the sentiments of a different time.
My parents were cops,
But please, don't blame them.

Would you like to know what they raised?

A late female suffragist. Yes, my father approves.
A female who knows how to wield a baton, she smiles
Then strikes,
Because you are a threat.

She was also educated that when pulled over
Keep your hands in plain sight, do not ****.
Theres something in the water in America,
Something that makes them act like that at a traffic stop, and my parents refused for me to be the victim.
They refused to see me on the news.

My parents haven't been on this continent in over 2 and half decades.
I do not know of the wrongs they possibly committed
But, I also know my mother screams kindness is free..
At me.

She will bend over backwards to make another life easier,
Is this guilt or is this humility?
I do not know.

My family is a century old *** of honey can dos
And jimmying without asking a professional.
We were poor, for the last 200 hundred years.
Is this hopefully where we found our recipes?
Destitution?
We didn't steal them right?

A black coworker discussed her family recipe for collard greens...
I chimed in. Couldn't help it, so far in the north here.
Black pepper is spicy here.
I'm so alone here.

I'm so incorrect.
I'm sorry.
I don't know how it is up north
But, my chiming in, down south?
I'd be fried and sliced up for Thanksgiving.
And that would have been fair.

I want to learn
You're all so confusing.
Teach me to mind my mouth, please.

Thank God,
Or whoever or whatever above,
Why? He knows me.

When I fall both up and down a set of stairs,
It's not a cause for concern.
He isn't even surprised anymore, just sticks out an arm
And there I fall, thanking God it's him I picked.
Why.?
Because he knows me and how I do and when I say maybe, he knows it means no.

He either catches me from clocking my head on a
Particularly sharp door ****,
Or,
Pushes me back up on my own step
All in sync with my feet.
Which is, well, quite the feat.
Excuse the pun.

I try to sneak into bed, crouch oh so quietly to plug in my phone.

Then promptly stand and step to trip over a cord
And I curse quietly and quickly as I fall into bed
And he gives me a second of rubbing my ankle
Before he asks,

"You okay?"

And I answer,

"Yeah, just tripped on a cord"

And he rolls over and says
"Should I beat it up?"

And I sort of smile frown because I know he's asleep and it is endearing but he ought to sleep so I say.

"Maybe Tomorrow." And he sort of nods then puts a hand on me so he knows I'm here. Why? Because he knows me. I think.

Yes, so I'm told.
a new job, you loved the idea
Yes.
you must be excited, right
Sure.

You see I meet every new change with a sense of
Just complete, utter
Dread.

It fills me.

It by it's own existence,
Allows me to see all I might not like in 3 weeks,
When the new has worn off.
And all within 3 days.

You'll know it's a good fit when the dread files off
But only after a few days.

It's my system.
It has literally never failed.

I look down at my chest,
And breathe.
And breathe.

I swallow,
Relief tingling my nerves for a second at "negative"
Second tumour in less than 4 years.

It grew so much more quickly than the first,
And I breathe.
One day, just one lucky day, I know you'll **** me.

You're uncontrollable now.
Growing whatever you'd like,
So deeply and thickly, they can't see
But I feel the aches and pain
And I just know in my heart,
One day you'll **** me.

If I were smart,
I'd chop you both off in an instant
A double mastectomy from sheer forethought.

But insurance doesn't cover foresight nor seer abilities.
So I blink and cry and sigh
Each time I am prodded and poked and dissected

Every few years, a larger and faster growing tumour
It's gotten smarter.
It's learning, I think.
It grows larger faster, noncancerous so far.
How long do I have,?-is what I'd like to ask my chest.

One day you'll **** me.
I'll miss one important new lump
And it'll grow even more quickly than it's brothers
And I'll suffer.
It'll be too late for medical attention.
I just know it.

One day...you will **** me.
I'm just wondering when.

You see I lost my faith in God
When he allowed a ****** to be forcefully deflowered.

Something I'd been taught was so important to him
Of course it's a him. Why else would my crotch matter?

And yet when I had already forsaken an absentee God
I had a tumour, one new enough and large enough
That I needed more than surgery

Xray over mammogram over biopsy,-chemo lingered a Threat.

My mother held my hand and I could see it in her eyes
She was trying to contain the thought that I'd be dead
Before the new year, with the size of my tumour.

I did not feel at the time. I'd seen her face the second visit and I hardened.
Death nor chemo nor invasive surgery,
Nothing could have scared me more.
Nothing more than that look on my mother's face.

Like I was already slipping through her fingers and she couldn't-she tried to grab me, just to drag me back to her arms
But she was too scared the disease was faster than her.

She nearly tried to fight the tumour herself,
And I imagined she most definitely would if she could,
She'd gone full protective, even snarling at her own mother
Especially when she mentioned my low chances should it be bad.
My mum nearly bared teeth.
She was always a fighter, through and through.
She may have seen a world without me for s second
But she refused it.

I suddenly had a new diet,
A new exercise regime,
And a ridiculous amount of vitamins.
If I had a radioactive spider bite. I'd probably be stronger than thanos at that point.

I thrived, I was safe. She cried so very hard and to this day she checks in everyday like I might slip out of her grasp again.

I can't blame her, so I reply everyday I keep my appointments,
My xrays
My biopsys.
I'm so young for this
But no one was ever too young to die.

The term "*** worker" holds the same definition as
The term "worker" to me.

A supply met a demand,
And yet as she blushed in humiliation
When I stepped out to toss trash,

She was embarrassed holding a laundry hamper
Despite the fact that I came out bearing
A Mickey mouse shirt too large, swallowing up my shorts, and a rattling bud light box.

I merely smiled and bowed my head in greeting,
While she seemed to defeat reason in her explanations.
She could have just said laundry-the most literal thing.

Instead she floundered nervously but my face seems to have that effect.
So I shrugged.
She floundered further.
I blinked and nodded again with a smile and turned for the stairs.

All the while I pondered,
Why not just say it when all her clients walked by me
Every day.

Did you know?
Probably not, right?
I never really gave you notice of it.

Never felt the need to.
Until now, anyways.

I'm rather familiar with guns,
Adept at clearing and cleaning them especially.

That's all I allow to appear
These days

How idiortic would it be to know the maintenance of a weapon
And not to know how to disarm one of it.
Honestly.

I do not prefer gunpowder and a hammer for a reason,
You *****

It is not that I am inexperienced, unfortunately.
though I wish I were

But one can only take so much ot a weapon pointed to their temple
Before they react,
And I am skilled at reacting.

Your hand comes too quickly and you find it's suddenly Twisted behind your back.
Courtesy of me.

A weapon appears, and my body jerks forwards like
A tale as old as time,
I knock it down from one's hand either nicely
Or by force.

I won't care either way,
Long as the deed is done.

I refuse to be so weak again,
I won't.

What if I told you,
There's  a third option?
That there's more than fight or flight?

Heck, I didn't know either!
Still haven't consciously experienced it!

Instead he did.
He discovered that I picked a whole third option
One night.

I have nightmares, but ironically,
Even my sleeping self is good at pretending it's fine.
She rests in odd angles, dangling off the bed, or rather
She takes up as much as she can and
Denys it to any other.

You see this third option appears
When and only when
One attempts to disturb that absurd nightmarish
But sleeping dragon from her rest.

She tends to then act out, purely instinctively,

Clawing
Choking
Crying

She has picked the third option
It means she cannot run because she is sleeping
Which, I guess she knows and understands.

But apparently she can fight regardless of
Her comatose self.

And she will.
To the either the death or you desist in poking the
Sleeping dragon.

She will apparently continue to rest soundly,
Sometimes in incredibly odd positions and
Awkward angles.
But she is quiet, she keeps to herself and guards her territory,
Unconsciously.

I realise I've been in a gloom, a fog you can't lift.
I apparently won't let you, especially as I slept.

I seemed to have worn my own experiences, feelings, injuries-I thought I wore them like a badge of what I've overcome.

I was wrong.
I'm sorry that when you stopped me from bashing my head on a nightstand,
I repaid you in not only attempting to claw your eyes out,
But also the thrashing about, kicking you in your intimates.
I am especially sorry for wrapping my hands around your throat and trying to choke you.

You see, this you that I know and love and find comfort in.
He does not suddenly appear to save me from what has already happened to me.
I was out of options then.
Fight or flight, those were it.
And I picked fight.

Each night it seems I lose and I feel worse in the day.
I tried to stop him,
I kicked
I clawed
I even, actually, attempted to choke him,
But my hands were too small.

I was too small.
I feel powerless.

So now, consciously I make due with the cards I've been dealt.
I have no passion.
No fight.
I once walked through the fire. willingly and yet,
I feel nothing. I see the emotion. I mimic it.
But I am hollow now.
I have nothing anymore, lately.

So please, give me something to sing about.

I've seen so many flyers
Missing, abandoned, died, maybe survived
And all at Walmart.

A wall of them.
And I cry inside for them,
Vowing I'll keep an eye out.

But I cannot stand the others,
The doubt and shirkers
They shirk their civil duties.

Mocking the few for their attempt to fight.
Rather than submit.
Since they never had a chance.

I'd rather support one that fought,
That tried to fight
Rather than accept her short life
And give up.

How dare you not share the sentiment
You've obviously never fought
Fought for your life.
Ignorant fool.

Undeserving of your gifted life.
You ignore the pain around you
And deny those that fight for their own lives.

I met the other in laws today,
And I registered how strongly I can blend,
Into the wallpaper.

It was only his grandmother that noted my quiet
Reactions.
And she wasn't sympathetic, rather just a tip of the cap.

I spoke, even quietly, and her eyes were on mine.
I suppose the 40s weren't kind, and she wasn't brave.
I don't delude myself into bravery, But!

I have an odd temper.
See, I'm hopefully past the age of worrying about
abortions
Yes I said it, boohoo.
It's the topic.

I don't care if you need it.
That's inbetween you and your doctor.
I know that its not only me alive on this earth.

I am incredibly unselfish when it comes to the fairer ***.
Because it could have easily been me.

It could have been me.
With no where to go,
Law on my back.

And I'm lucky, thrice!
Not only would the father agree, but also my own parents.
If I asked.

But...I'm lucky.
That's the point of law.
You shouldn't have to be lucky.

As the feminists once screeched,
I am, unfortunately, a woman of deeds,
Not words.

I forget I'm easy to act
Until a man rubs up too closely
And then my body reacts.

I simply must twist around and grab his wrists
Only to wrench them against his back.
I often knock his knees out too.
Doesn't matter the intention,
He got far too close,
I mean really-do you have to walk .5 inches from my backside to shop for groceries?
I was already speed walking, idiot.

You stepped too close.
Normal people don't, pervert.
I asked you to stop,
You refused.

That.

Well, that's on you for assuming I'm weak.
Idiotic Republican morales.  
Just because I do not wish to harm others,
Does not mean I won't fight.

After all my parents were cops,
They taught my muscles that
Deeds not words, mattered.
Woe be me, this poor stupid democrat.
Shame on me for not wishing harm to others.

Really...let my 12 year old self show you ****** shame,
*****.

My heart is probably almost black
Who knows who to blame for that
Yet I still rised aboved it.

Scream my name
And little me couldn't imagine it.
She's pointing at a lose by 5
And then I won

I'm not as famous,
But still
I have nothing left to lose
And I'm not afraid like
She was.

I feel like I'm running towards
An ever moving finish line
And yet
This is how I learned to say no.

I won't apologise
And wonder why not

I won't lose sleep over it

And I'll smile

Then shut my eyes as you cut
My knees out from
Under me.

This is just how I learn to say no,
I'd rather hold my breathe for forever.

Hello Child,
I've become your personal
Part time mother.

Out of the 24 hours of the day!
You and I spend atleast 9 together.
Well you and about 6 others,
All to which,
I'm their part time mother.

The other hours, I can only hope.
That people are talking to you
That your diaper was changed.
That you got as much food as your tummy wanted.

The rest of the time?
We hug and
We pat and
You show me your personal stash of treasures
All during play time
And goodness me,

Am I impressed!

Wow!
Whoa!
That's pretty!

Everything gets my Good Job! Sticker of approval.
As I smile and clap and pat you on the back
Because you're a little human
And you're mine for 9 hours, minimum.

I'm your own personal part time mother and I'm here.
I'm always here to greet you and to play with you and
Hug you.

We grow as we go,
So why not hug and pat and clap as our kids grow?

Half the time,
I acknowledge love as a fairytale.
And yet!

I find myself swallowing trepidation,
And thinking,
"No. Even if it were here, or in the past, that's Him"
And then love is apparently a legitimate issue.

Sometimes he acts and I swallow a while before,
I react with humbled affection.
"That's my lot, I committed myself to stick to it."
Unfortunately.

Other times, I get this urge
It's to point, jab my finger at him and his actions
And just state, "That's a Him! It's a classic Him."

Sometimes I remember when
An Ill given price of advice
Given to a child
Popped up in the wrong place, yet right heart.

I often wonder how my kids are doing now.
If their teacher ever acknowledged my way
Less if they even took it in stride.

I was logical, efficient.
I explained the madness to my method.
They got it.
They listened.

I listened to bullies,
To the misunderstood angry kids,
The undesirables, I guess.

I accepted bullies as newbies
Listeners as helpful advisors
Class clowns as young leaders.

Every child had its equal and right place
In my room.

They may have stumbled on their journey to righteousness.
But their stumbles were my praised steps.
Each hesitant one to glory.

They were still all my kids,
I took care to notice and observe the dynamics.
I hope they're okay.

I just really hope they're all okay.
I really really hope my kids are okay.

I asked him what I did wrong
I want to learn how to be better
More effective
More efficient

I want to
Make me perfect

I was told that I'm
too cold
Too professional
And unfortunately my physical characteristics
Make me look incredibly mean.

I couldn't deny him
Since I literally made the conscious decision
That I'd be exactly all of those things.

Except mean.
Kinda had that done for me, I guess.
Thanks dad.

Not only was I a kindergarten teacher,
But hey!
Guess what?
Your preschoolers teacher
Can't live off what they pay her.

So I had yet another job,
This was ontop of my other job as a tutor.
So I guess a third job?

Seriously, your kid's teachers are paid for *****.
It's a miracle they haven't
Hired serial killers at this rate.

Regardless, I ran a tight ship.
It was technically a democracy,
Except I held the power of infinite vetoes.

Like starting a fire with a microscope,
Vetoed.

Sitting and standing on top of tables with ***** shoes,
Then eating ontop of said tables.
Hard veto.

Lets play with a bunch of sharp forks, and stab each other.
Also a veto.

Gosh, I'm now a dictator and they're going to get their
Mommy and daddy to fire me.
Also vetoed
After a series of explanations on how it works.

Your 10 year old?
Yeah, the one full of manners and good sense??
Your kid's teacher is what keeping your kid alive.
You're welcome.

I was once a kindergarten teacher,
And I wasn't terrific.
Heck, I was probably a showcase of "least friendly"
Or maybe the most "lacking motherly care"

I made mistakes.
I overlooked digging in the dirt
And encouraged childish behaviours.

I appreciated
Kids that built towers
Only to knock them down

I watched children trip
Take a tumble, then a somersault,
and I patted them on their ***** head and said,
At least they didn't break an arm.

But I had fans, somehow.
Fans that had me bartering for alone time.
If they could run the whole circle, I'd give them a push,
Next time they ran the gym.

And my fans were, somehow,
Genuinely fans.

Their sticky, germy smiles,
And the security blanket that was
Both my scolding and my handholding,
Made the work worth it.

Lately, for some reason,
I've been considering the possibilities of my own death.
Not at my own hands-but that of another.

Perhaps it's due to my least favourite movie, The Lovely Bones
And that as watching it,
I can feel physical revulsion and pain at how he lures her in.
How she asks to leave.
How she misses dinner.

Despite my own experiences and knowledge of predators,
I quite literally can't count the number of them
The number I've run into on my own-not as a child.

As an adult.
An adult where my parents were a continent away
And where I was targeted at opportune times and the middle of the day,
accurately mind you.
There's been to many times.

I was utterly alone.

It irks me that I was targeted, firstly.
But mostly, it bothers me that I was
Likely only saved because a guy friend
Or a boyfriend stepped up.

I couldn't begin to imagine what I'd accidentally cause,
Being a willing target.
I can't even try to understand the horror that could have occurred had another second to happen in broad daylight.

It'd only take a second,
And I hate it.

The kitchen?
A ridiculous container for all
The plastic utensils you'd need.
A spatula, tongs, weird fork thing?
Even a series of spice racks

The bathroom,
Holders for your toothbrush and paste
A caddie for all that shampoo and body wash
A rack on the back of the door for your towels

A shoerack
A laundry hamper
A series of picture frames and knickknacks
A few blankets
A set of decorative pillows

...so many pillows.
No one uses them!
We all just move them before sitting.
It's ridiculous.

But,
All of these things
Do a home make.

They're so incredibly inconsequential.
Clutter.

Yet, I dare you
Point me towards a home
For two or more
Which lacks these.

These are how you know
A life has been made together.

When I was younger
I once read a book,
That somehow connected with me.

It was bought by my mother
And
It was aptly named, What My Mother Doesn't Know

I'm quite sure my mother knew
Atleast most of what I was up too.
And I was all the better for it.

I still have the book,
I think I'll give it to my own child one day.

When I was little,
I was quiet and,
I towed the line.

But now I realise
a little too late
That I'm a natural.

I tow the line,
Ignoring what you've thrown
No matter how much it
Hurts or takes from me.

I'll tow the line.
It's what I was taught.
but I don't think this is what they meant

You can be high,
I'll be low.
I'll tow the line.

It's going to be finished,
The project will be completed.
perfectly.

Because no matter what it takes,
I will tow the line.

I can't
Seem to settle
For less.

Smite. Fight.
I find myself angry at me.
I hope you're happy.
This thought strikes me often-
I want to crucify you.

Well done.

You've forced me to resort to relying on my old self.

I sincerely hope you've achieved the effect you wanted.

I wait for you to see what you've done.  
I wait for you to speak.
You do.

But you don't acknowledge me.

You go at your own leisure,
Don't you?

I am blinded.
I scream, and shout.

But I only destroy what was.

I can't take the reins,
But I can no longer wait.

Let's try a hint of bluntness
Honesty.

When I was little
I didn't know
That the Redskins name
Was wrong.

No one taught me.
I knew it sounded weird
But not for anything heartwarming-
I thought more about cannibals
Wearing someone else's skin
Than about racial discrimination.

I wasn't able to pinpoint

Black or white
The rivers have had their fun

They've finally done it.
Your countrys waters are murky.

They have torn it all asunder.
Muddling the waters with red
Poisonous elements to ensure
You are blind.

Child or not
I am blind too.

I wish I weren't.
I wish I was removed.
I had enough of the bloodshed for
Race and religion in Yugoslavia.

Your words will turn empty
They will fail on the deaf
Fall off the angry shields
And fists.
They always do.

But
Maybe you'll be the lucky ones
Maybe the system you fight for support
Will actually turn around for you.

I wish I could be Switzerland
I wish I'd never come to the U.S.
People here are just as terrifying
As they were at home over 20 years ago.

But I'm not a child anymore
So I can't use that excuse not to be involved
But, I'm scared.

I wish I could just go home instead.
Witnessing the history of violence
Taught me that it doesn't solve
It only angers more and more and more.

Sometimes I'll lose myself
Writing up stories.
Of females.

Always females.

I can write from a Male perspective,
But I'm not comfortable.
I'm not in my element and
The words don't flow.

These females will have deep
Backgrounds, memories of their relatives.
Sometimes a privileged one
Sometimes one which leads them on their
Own personal journey.

Still they will suffer all the same.
Something is always stolen
It's always concerned with what
Great atrocities
They will suffer
In the great and copious details,
Which I provide.

But they will always
Find a way
They persevere.

Right when they're
Just about on the mend
I stop writing.

I cannot continue
To the point which
My readers panic,
Perhaps I've died?

No.
I have simply ran
Out off a track.

It recently dawned on me
That my characters
Were so real
Felt so genuine
And oh so guttural

Because each character displayed
A small piece of me.

Anger.
Arrogance.
Intelligence.
Love.
Forgiveness.
Naivety.

My heroines always find a
Place they can control
With kind people
And flourish within it.

But most of all,
they never get a happy ending.

Simply because I don't
Understand how to
Write a genuine happily ever after.

I always thought it stupid
Or perhaps idiotic
To write yourself
Into your own story.

Who needs a dozen mini me's?

But look at me go.

Hey. Quick thing for you.
If you're that sure, enough to protest and riot.
Why don't you just drop the masks?

The threats gone. Right?
No?
Maybe you should drop the protest then.
Since, you know-we're all stuck because the
THREAT isn't GONE.
Figure it out.
I'd rather rack debt than **** an innocent person.