Born in the ivy-cloaked womb of
West Virginia,
fireflies swam through sticky summer heat
while unspoken resentments clung
to the skin of generations.
From a Michigan smile
carried in a suitcase to Wheeling backwoods,
chatter of cheerleading
halted by soft cries soaked in August’s humidity.
From Motown trouble conjured by tricky teens on
the streets of Kansas City,
and banishment to Five Points,
songs were cut short by the life of another.
The peeling paint of a worn-down Race Street porch
still smells of cigarette smoke and selfishness;
decades of disappointments fill forgotten ashtrays
used by those who could only exhale more hurt.
The rich soil of
this Whittier jungle,
is soaked in tears of joy,
clumped together with factory sweat
and unspoken tragedy.
Labored breathing, cared for by the arms
of Colfax and Colorado,
transformed trauma into resilience.
Self-hatred steaming on Colfax and York
became a generational pendant;
a weight on the chests of those still to come.
Born of two lost souls who thought they were searching
for true love;
only, infatuation was found
and marked with an expiration date.
Hot tears
dripped down flushed skin.
Vows were made
to never again
fall prey to the viciousness of vulnerability.
I am the shovel
unearthing this brokenness
buried in our backyard.
I am imperfect rebirth;
nursing the heartbreak
eating away at our roots.