Being Adopted is...

Being adopted is

being a Michael Kors purse- knockoff

knocked off the shelf and misplaced,

not authentic

It’s realizing that Annie is overrated,

too outdated for modern times

because pregnant 14 year old girl

school drop out,

heroin had her by the soul

had been tearing out her tomorrows in time.

Boyfriend opted for abortion

but she opted for a second option.

Being adopted is

being that one elbow noodle in

your bowl of rotini

or when you can’t find your keys

or when your coat zipper catches,

no closure

as I watched my father’s facial expression change,

when I told him,

I know I’m not his child.

Quick to explain-

“I’m a good father and your biological mom…

well she was an irresponsible teenager

who abused drugs so…

this is a nice place, don’t you think?”

When I dance,

I use coupe turns,

double pirouettes to

spot,

spot,

spot where I’m going next.

Suddenly,

my shasses

center leaps

were no longer keeping

me quick on my feet.

Doubt buckled my knees

when I found my adoption certificate

on my 13th birthday

then learning that my parents

will be forever young.

Adopted like having trust issues,

covering up my scar tissue because

being an outsider is a burden on your whole family.

Adopted like being forgotten by someone,

somewhere your whole life.

She followed through with pregnancy

with nobody at her side,

not ready to take responsibility.

Being adopted is

feeling like the new kid,

the heat that floods your face

when you’re embarrassed.

It's the scratch on the bottom of a cd

that causes a skip

It's always being misunderstood

mislabeled,

misread.

It's people always calling you the wrong nationality,

because they see the polish kalachkis on top of your fridge

and smell the carne asada flowing out of your kitchen,

when your birth parents were Italian and Puerto Rican.

When I was 5,

I met my mom

out of the masses of spanish speaking families,

sitting at tables with birthday balloon centerpieces,

She said “mi chava” as i ran into her arms.

She was the mountains to my Grand Canyon

and although her decision put us on

opposite sides of the river,

We had a natural attraction,

shoulder to knee.

A need to pretend for

just a moment that

I was still her baby girl.

It's keeping your friends close

But your adoption certificate closer.

It's always feeling incomplete,

searching for something,

someone with a similar structure,

that can say

You have my ample brown eyes.

Before my mom’s life

was cut short as a drug addict,

she searched for me-

buried under legal documents,

she just wanted me to know

although she’s losing feeling in her arms-

I was still her baby girl that she used to carry.

I carry the resentment of

an unwanted kid,

carry the outrage of

laid out lies that

were my childhood lullabies.

Cut short of the opportunity to meet

the young woman who gave me my ample brown eyes,

who might of been able to give me the closure

of feeling such haste

for being adopted.