The inheritance of loss Often told as a tragic story I sit here writing while gripping onto the edges of every passing day hoping to change the narrative of this pain I'm sorry to my daughter; there were too many things I never solved I walked with this heaviness with a dream to transform the world for you but instead, I lost and lost and left these wounds on your carpet watered a grass that was already dead and called it advocacy The inheritance of loss is beaded into these gold bangles the same ones my mother gave me the same ones I keep for you
I never felt loved. I remind myself it’s not because I wasn’t lovable, but because I was made to hate everyone who loved me and loathe everything I’ve ever loved. You had to purge me of love to assure you were its only source.
I looked for love in a golden page— learned quickly what it was to feel imprisoned by flesh-– learned quickly I’m meant to feel so tightly wound it’s as if barbed wire snakes my skin. I’ve yet to come undone. The serpent is starved for its prey and I let it swallow me whole. I know I was born to listen— born to obey. The word “yes” was burned on my tongue from the moment I could speak it, recited like a scripture, scorched into my subconscious by a “saint’s” shallow sermon.
Love was never patient, nor was she kind. Love struck without warning. She consumed me whole as the serpent does and spit me out when she was full. To this day, I starve.
Love was pompous. I was nothing but she was the world. No pride of God could measure to that of the saint who loved me.
Love dishonored me with every slice from her tongue. Love was selfish. Love was rageful. She shattered with the lightest touch. She was wicked— a liar. She claimed to keep me safe but my fear of hell was nothing compared to my fear of her. I was the only thing love hated more than herself.
Love recited my wrongs more than my name.
Love says I’m a liar. She says I am cursed like her. Deep down, I think it’s true. Love was fruit grown from a poison vine. Deep down I know there’s cancer at my roots. Deep down I know I rot.
Love only wants me when I’m small. When I’m afraid. When I’m alone. When I’m malleable. Love loves me when she is the only thing I have to love.
The love I know is violent. She is brutal and unforgiving. Love killed me with her first touch.
