When the topic of family
comes up, I tell people
that I am adopted.
People usually give me
The pity look and ask
me what happened.
When I start to explain my
Situation, People tell me
Not to feel like I am unloved.
Unnecessary. Unwanted.
And if I am completely honest?
I would rather be unwanted.
I would rather that you
and him did not sit down
and talk it through.
That you and him did not
make the conscious decision,
The sober decision,
The permanent decision,
Of having me.
I would rather that you
stumbled upon the bump
in confusion, that you really
did not know I was there,
That you were not trying
to kill me from within.
I would like to imagine that
you were some foolish, naive
little girl who was barely an
adult, but you were not.
You were old enough
to make better decisions.
You made the selfish decision
of picking a needle over me.
You chose amber bottles and
the syringes and addiction.
You chose to go on a venture
through the twilight zone,
And take me along for the ride.
I did not deserve that.
I did not deserve to be
damaged because you
went and made mistakes.
I am not the mistake.
I am not the accident.
I am not the thing that
“just popped up”- the
thing that you can push away.
I will always be here, regardless
of whether or not you look at me.
I am here. I exist. I am real,
even if you choose to pretend
that I was some drugged-out,
not even 9-month hallucination.
I am not simply a condition
you can go and wish away.
A consequence you can
go and run away from.
Most parents go and
give birth to children,
But you went and gave
birth to another statistic.
How cruel is it to poke
holes in an infant?
To rewire and cross-fire
their premature brain?
To take their opportunities,
Their chances, their family,
all away from them?
When you realized you
could not get rid of me,
Is that when you chose to fight?
Or was that all for show?
Is the reason that you ran
when you gave birth to her,
Is because you had
a better replacement?
One that you did not screw up,
Or ruin or break or just
One that was not me?
Did you think of me when
she asked for a sibling?
Did you think of me when
you tucked her in at night?
Did you think of me when
the other moms asked
if she was your only child?
Did you think of me when
you bought baby clothes,
when you rocked her crib,
when you were able to take
her home in your arms?
Am I the “almost” that
almost makes you cry, that
almost makes you feel guilty,
that almost makes you regret
what you have done?
I am not dumb.
I know it is foolish to
believe you will have
some sort of poetic regret,
to believe that my ghost
plagues your nightmares
and that my name
infests your thoughts.
It is outright stupid for me
to think you feel bad for all
of my issues that have your
signature but no return address.
How do you even get back at
someone for something like this?
How can a daughter betray a
mother in the same kind of way?
Most people identify
the four years of high
school by their nicknames.
Freshman, sophomore,
junior, and senior.
I identify them by the
people I had to forgive
each of those years.
9th grade : Dad.
10th grade : Myself.
11th grade : Mum.
And for 12th grade,
for the end of childhood,
for complete closure,
I decide to forgive you.
I forgive you and I let you go.
I never even knew I was
holding onto your silhouette,
But your body looks just
like my body, and I am
tired of hating myself.
Your name feels like a
curse word and I am
tired of washing my
mouth out with soap.
And I know I will never
say this to you face to face,
I know I will never get
to see you, or maybe I will,
But I cannot keep looking
over my shoulder like you
might show up just to hurt me.
What I want to say is
I am sorry you missed out
on the woman I became.
I am sorry I missed out on
the woman you became.
I am sorry we missed out
on each other, like two trains
in the same state, in the
same city, leaving the same
station on the same day,
we just happened to flip
our P’s and our A’s.
I am the full, noisy,
packed noon trip.
You are the quiet,
empty, midnight ride.
Tell me,
Do you picture me
in one of those rows?
Do I haunt one of
those empty seats?