Middle

I tried to find the words to describe divorced parents

So as my hands rested on the keyboard I thought “Middle”

That word fits because I was never allowed to throw one.

 

You know how when you’re little you think the sun and the moon were following you when you’re in the car?

Imagine being so unable to attach

You believe the reason the sun goes down and the moon comes up is because everything comes to an end.

So, there’s no need to start.

Anything for that matter

 

But the day my parents used me as a rope in their game of tug of war

They pulled me side to side

Emotionally tearing me apart without a care in the world

They might’ve mistaken my tears as if I was taking score

I wish I could say this was metaphorical

They yelled

“It’s my weekend”

No

“It’s MY weekend”

As I prayed to God that it didn’t matter who’s it was

and wondered if they knew the trauma, they slowly poured into me was finally

seeping in

As I’m reading this the anxious little girl in me is peaking in 

In front of everyone

Are you serious?

It’s one thing to live the drama

But to showcase this broken home, is another

I’ll never forget that night, at 12 years old

It was a lot to handle

But I can say for my children, it won’t be anything to hold

 

Later that night, I couldn’t stop crying

I’m not the only child

So why am I always caught in the middle?

Some say it’s timing

“You went through what you went through to make you stronger”

I call bull

Because at that age I should’ve been learning how to hold a hand stand longer

I should’ve grown up with that same friend group or

that family home that gets passed down generations

 

But all I ended up with, is attachment issues

And a self-diagnosed disorder that requires me to move states if I begin to feel stuck in places

 

The blue and red lights flashed on my damp face

The officers asked if I was okay

As the crowd that surrounded us started to erase

Okay? A word I don’t know till this day

 

But

 

Only when you’re older you can reflect on memories like this

Only when you’re younger you can pray the future is different

 

Then again, there I was, in the middle

Not the child, the situation

Not the car, the position

 

Wishing I was somewhere else 

Where parents are parents and not rivalry teams

Where I don’t have to choose sides

Where I don’t make marriage and commitment the enemy

Where reading this poem doesn’t hurt my pride

Where carrying this much baggage doesn’t hurt my feet