Unadopted

It feels wrong to call this tale mine, visceral, angry, sad.
Worse, it is drawn from the experiences too many have had.

You are a cell, you do not feel, you do not scream, you do not breathe.
You are forced into existence by the parents of a young drug whore.
She never wanted motherhood, but oh her father preached.
You were born on the drug den floor.

You were surrendered at the fire station, for better or worse.
A ward already of the state.
Never by the birth mother held, you never got to nurse.
Already you are forsaken by the system, born into bleak fate.

You are adoptable, but you're expensive because you're young.
The system is glorified, a high price puppy mill.
You start to say words, to use your tongue.
"Ma" but those shoes are empty, too expensive to fill.

Everybody wants a baby,
adoption is only second best.
A last resort, a maybe,
hearts break in tiny chests.

You are one, but you have no home.
You witness your first abuse, foster mom and dad are violent, they fight.
You're young, you're scared, the suit people come, you get an ice cream cone.
You cry though, because it's not a familiar room you sleep in that night.

You are two, you are curious and loud.
You are cute, but you live with a monster.
The people that have taken you are the birth mother's crowd.
You're just another check for their roster.

The suit people come, you aren't even three.
They take you again, a new unfamiliar room.
There are still bruises on your cheeks.
You don't understand, and you cry when the thunder booms.

You are three, childless newlyweds take you to the pond.
They decide a child is too much, too soon.
You don't know the word yet, but you feel conned.
The suit people come, another ice cream at noon.

You are four and you  already feel alone.
You're in daycare, and the suit woman comes.
The words of heartbreak and hope echo on your young lips, "I go home?"
The pain in her eyes burns brighter than a hundred suns.

You are five, you think you have a home.
You a family, an aunt too.
There is something weird with her, you feel it in your bones.
The suit people come after she starts kissing you.

You are six and you make a friend, your big brother, his name is Fred.
The suit people ask about him, with hope and a grin.
You say he wrestles naked with you in bed.
You learn years later, that the taste on his lips was gin.

You are seven, you're crying, you want a home.
The drunk you almost called dad says he's going to give you something to cry about.
Then, he breaks your bones.
The suit people, at the hospital, are the ones who see you out.

You are eight, and your gaze is haunted.
You woke from sleep with hand muffled screams.
After the act, he smoked a cigarette, flaunted.
The suit people come, for the first time they are a dream.

You are nine, another house, it happens again.
But the suit people don't check in as often now.
It doesn't happen often, only now and then.
Your learn it's called "sex", and realize for years, you've known how.

You are ten when you taste hope.
Start to call them mom and dad.
It's beautiful and fragile, a bubble of soap.
They are the first real parents you've had.

You are eleven, you haven't changed houses for a year.
You feel like you have a home.
You begin to forget fear.
Mom gives you a blanket, it's hand sewn.

You are twelve when you overhear.
These cries are joy, and soon enough you learn.
They'd been trying for an en vitro baby, it's worked, they cheer.
You're not in the announcement photos, but for this family you have yearned.

You are a week from thirteen when the baby is born, she's perfect and pure.
You even get to hold her, you call her your sister.
Then comes the heavy blow, they don't need you now, so you are returned.
You never get to say how much you'll miss her.

You are thirteen, you're still angry and you're hurt.
People don't want to adopt, they want blood, they want kin.
You're in Catholic school, this father's hands are crawling beneath your shirt.
At home, you trace a sharp pencil against your skin.

You're fourteen, now nobody wants you.
You're in a group home, you are covered in self inflicted scars.
Your grades are falling, your college hopes are few.
That's when you meet her, your first real friend, your star.

You are fifteen, she is your best friend, you start to call her mom.
She's seems ancient and wise, she's a writer.
She knows every way to reach you, and when you audition for a play, she's there to cheer you on.
You know by her scars she too, is a fighter.

You are sixteen, you're still in that group home.
You're losing hope in being adopted, but the mom friend is there.
You skip school one day to go get stoned.
Mom is the one to find you, you feel guilty, she was scared.

You are seventeen, you're little more than skin and bone.
You have more scars now, your body is thin.
Nobody wants you, you have no home.
Mom begs her parents to take you in.

You are still seventeen when you try to die.
You friend, Mom, cuts you from the noose.
Like a newborn with the cord cut, you begin to cry.
You wish you could overlook the haunting  truth.

Her hands are shaking as she holds you close.
Your life is the greatest tragedy she has ever seen.
This friend has been a parent to you, more than most.
You tell her everything you've survived, she weeps and keens.

You are a month from eighteen, when her bold words are spoken.
"I will have not kids my own, but raise the ones tossed aside."
She makes a promise in her flesh that can't be broken.
She turns 24, and she has her tubes tied.

You are the day before being an adult, nobody wants to raise you.
People wanted kin, people wanted babies.
At least your friend mom is pure, is true.
Nobody thinks about the foster children they see.

These children, praying for maybe.
Praying to be that lucky third.
If en vitro doesn't work, if they can't have the baby.
Then maybe, just maybe, talk of adoption is heard.

You are 18 and you try to die again, the darkness sweet.
You wake in the hospital, your friend, now your mom, is reading your note.
The closing line, "Cause of death? En vitro, you see."
You reach for her hand as she sits shaking beneath her heavy coat.

You are 19 and you live with your friend mom.
She's crying because the state won't let her foster.
Your faith in humanity is all but gone,
You take her out to dinner, spoil her at Red Lobster.

You are 20 when you track a once young crack whore down.
Friend mom is with you, she wants to meet her too.
The once young whore is ancient, she lives across town.
The whore's gaze is vacant, she wants nothing to do with you.

You're halfway to 21 and your track down your father.
Well, at least your find you have a half sibling, his son.
Another foster child with whom most won't bother.
Your father is a grave, he turned on himself a gun.

You are 22 and your half brother is 15.
His last three foster parents returned him after their successes conceiving.
The pain is his eyes is your own memory, keen.
"Bundles of joy" are so damned deceiving.

People want blood, people want kin.
People want blood to their heirs,
More shallow than their skin,
The hands with blood on them may as well be theirs.

You are 23, your brother is just 16.
His foster parents just had a miracle en vitro heir.
Your brother was taken off life support after hanging from a tree.
He had over heard their plans to return him and despaired.

Your friend- she says to call her mom- holds you while you scream.
You were the one who got the hospital's call,
his life was taken by the selfish genetic dream.
You're thirteen again, you curse it all.

In his suicide note, it reads;
"My cause of death... en vitro, you see..."
You curse the fertility clinic for their "Good deeds"
You weep for the brother who never got to be.

You run into your former foster parents, you are 24, a friend is 22.
They're at a pro life rally as you walk her into the clinic.
They scream, "What if your mother had aborted you?!"
"You didn't want me either," your smile is bitter, cynic.

Silence spreads through the small crowd.
You tell about your freshly dead brother.
They slink back, guilty and cowed.
Your friend is brave through the abortion, you hug her.

You are 25, friend mom is 31,
You hear about the crack whore now in a hearse.
You can imagine never knowing the sun.
But here you were born, for better or worse.

You're 26, walking into the clinic beside a young girl.
It's your one-day sister, she's just 13.
Her parents are there, if just  to protest, she says she wants to hurl.
Mother doesn't want her to abort her grandchild, the size of a bean.

She screams, she howls, "Someone will adopt it!"
You turn to her, you scowl, "Until they have their en
vitro child."
Your one-day sister turns to her mother and spits.
You tell her then you've missed her, she smiled.

Your one day sister becomes an only child disowned.
She comes to you when she's kicked from the house.
You are 27, you finally have a home.
Your friend mom is cleared at last to foster, she helps your one day sister out.

You are 28, your one day sister is now forever.
Family of choosing is a bond hard to sever.
You have a family, and of hope, at last you have a token.
She made a promise in flesh that can't be broken.

Everybody wants a baby, adoption is only second best.
A last resort, a maybe as hearts break in tiny chests.

Rights Are My Religion

If you must make me go to war over my morals, be ready, be ready, for I will unleash the wrath of all my inner quarrels.
Be ready, be ready, I do not do well in forced silence
Be ready, be ready, I will not be beaten and choked again into compliance.
Burn down my soap box, stand by, give alibi, defend the bad cops.
Good cops I see you, but you gotta control your own- oh, wrong narrative though.
It's as much about the good and bad as it is about the race; it's intertwined, I'm horrified, it's gentrified and glorified.
This isn't blind panic, it's  systematic and borderline manic.

Broken Parts

Behold the broken parts in the mutiny of me against me, anxiety and self loathing creeping in to slide foul and hateful hands down my shaking spine to squeeze my frightened lungs.
Witness my mind against me, pushing me down to drown, smothering.
This is a panic attack, PTSD.
My front brain and back brain living disconnected, giving me flack.
Witness me, the trainwreck, falling from my rusty tracks.

Witness the panic, hands shaking and tears snaking down my cheeks as I curl up, pathetic and small, gasping, mouth gaping.
Witness anxiety consuming me while I lay aching, grasping the sheets.
Witness me left broken and meek; I am, to my anxiety, free for the taking.

I am left in my dark, unable to witness the world outside from within.
I don't see the hand darting out to grab my anxiety by the scruff, shake it, and throw it back again.
I am shaking, trapped within, while somebody else smothers the voice of mutiny over the course of an hour; because that is what friends do.

I can't even listen from within as a friend scolds the mutineer, but I marvel later at the way they so gently choked the voice and defend me; even seem to hold me dear.

Read back and watch the mutiny seep back through the floorboards to sleep and steep again in their fetid bitterness.
Behold the gentle and creative hands that snuffed out a self destructive flame, that quieted the mutiny.
Simply because this is what friends do.
You trust each other with your awkward, you do the scary things; you open up.

I am left to shake, quake, and wonder, for if so easily they handled mine, how often has perhaps their own mental mutiny torn them asunder?
How often has their own hate choked their hope and wheezed down their neck?
Has theirs too traced it with rope?

I shake, marveling at the time and kindness they took to chase the desert dog off where I couldn't put him to sleep.
I can't help but weep at the fact the broken parts were there, mutiny laid bare, and somehow... I'm addressed still as whole.

The anxiety lingers, another mutiny for another day, this shaking faith in the fact they can still behold my face as a whole beneath the broken parts.

Hawk, Dove, Mask, and Glove

It's the time again, war.
A time of pestilence, a looming famine, so much death and, still coming, more.

Then was the time of hawk and dove.
Now is the time of mask and glove.

We called then, our young boys out to war.

Yet here, on our soil, this sickness has now killed a sad deal more.

Now, just as then, we deny and we pretend.
That we will not be effected in the end.

A country, built on the backs of those called to war...
Cannot handle being told to stay home, they're "bored".

American dreams are being choked.
As ever, all is well for the big business folk.

Woe be my fellow essential personnel.

Not just the Healthcare, not just Police, Fire, EMTs, Dispatch, those the people who see you through your moments of true essential hell.

No no, I mean the "lesser" perceived personnel.

Your hardware store, your grocery staff.
Those who take out your trash.

Your auto parts stores, all these cashiers.
Your fast food restaurants are places full of fear.

Even the processing plant workers are treated like meat.
All of us, trying not to spread disease is scolded as defeat.

We are expected to put our lives at near constant, silent risk.
When a year ago many of us were spoken down at as lesser than piss.

The line between fast food workers and sacrifice
Spelled out with  the words "essential personnel" as the font-thin ice.

Except it's in Your Lungs

Welcome all to my  anxiety, the tightening in your chest.
Must I welcome you who mocked me? Must I?
Now that you have come now to suffer with me?
With anxiety?
Your mockery is not laid to rest, I lives on in my head.
For now who but you comes to me, the young veteran to this anxiety.
"What tea do you drink?"
"What meditations do you do?"
"How do you do this?!"
"I lost my screws!"
Oh hush honey, hush honey, I'll tell you the same things I heard, when I came seeking comfort.
"It's all in your head."
Wait, what?
Oh, right, it's your lungs now, isn't it?
I do not have to welcome you who mocked me.
I do not owe you my guidance, I do not owe you my time.
You have become my cruel amusement, to pass my jaded time.
To see you panic and heave and scream, the way I have in and out of dreams.
I have no sympathy for you  because I've had to grow my own.
"It's all in your head."
Drink to your conspiracies, drink to your mania, drink to your denial until the virus comes to you with his hands like bile.
Mock the invasion I endured in my test.
Mock my quarantine, then run when I cough on you from my chest.
I'm maybe petty, I know at least I'm vile, as there are those I wish this plague upon.
I'm human, I know; my blood has shown me so.
So forgive me for mere fact I can't find a damned gram of sympathy for thee.
You, surrounded in the New York corpses.
You, seeing the states fall ill one, by one, by one until free from it are None.
I stand, in the familiar anxious hell sands...
"It's all in your head."
Except it's in your lungs.

The Yaak House (Part Three)

"The Yaak House" has moved to my dedicated Darker Things Blog! https://andiwritedarker.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Yaak%20House

Lucky Third

These feelings shouldn't hurt, I should be on a first name basis with them like lovers. The familiarity of being ignored and replaced, the sharp red sting of self loathing.
These are familiar things, feelings I must have foolishly forgotten.
Where my heart overflows love I step aside for the little wonders, tiny hands and feet.
Where my soul overflows grief, these sandcastles of progress wash away.
Two tides, two oceans, neighboring and never mixing, a body caught between.
I weep for the wonder I was robbed, scream for the misfortune of it all, beg myself for forgiveness.
I'm fighting the hardest I have fought in years; and scarce a soul sees.
I'm fighting again and I am proud for it.
I shouldn't feel like a child,  holding my progress up for the world to see; but like I child I seem when I can't even say I'm, of my destructive habit, clean.
As I write my hands are shaking, body aching, my heart into peices breaking, but here I stand. Here I stand alone; alone in the way I have always been. Alone in the way of someone who has always been a centerpiece in someone's life but never the center of someone's world; the way of someone who has learned that they're never the first choice, or even second best. Alone in the way of someone who's a lucky third place, perhaps a perky side; alone in the way of someone used to not being chosen. Maybe it's a little bit selfish, but for all the years I've burned, the times I've been spurned, I think one human moment has been earned.
So ignore me then; ignore the lucky third. I'll wince and perhaps cry, but I'm long used to being unheard by the heart that reaches out for mine. Used to the fact I have mistaken what is kind for love.