A Home for the Lonely Child

I am an oxymoron.

There is a voice pounding in my head, “You will never, ever be enough.”

But people of my life walk away every day because I am just too much.

They walk away leaving me to stare at the backs of their shirts, fixated on the tag sticking out.

I am left standing alone in the middle of a street lined with abandoned houses.

Houses that were once homes, inevitably torn apart by screaming parents.

Homes that had to be rebuilt inside of the child struggling to find the materials strong enough to keep the walls of their veins from collapsing.

I am the child whose veins are collapsing; my foundation relentlessly crumbles.

I am also the parent spewing empty promises that everything will be okay.

I am the best friend who never really understands why you cry in the bathroom stalls during Math.

I am the teacher threatening detention if one more homework assignment is handed in blank and I don’t care why you need to leave class, this is the third time this week, sit down.

Sit down and keep your cold eyes on me as I write big words on the board that will never be complex enough to describe the heartbreak inside you.

Sit down and stare at this blackboard covered in white chalk and wonder why you are filled with gray.

And I sit down with my back straight and my tongue tied behind pale lips sewn shut.

Remember:

Say nothing unless you are told to.

Think nothing unless you are told to.

Be nothing unless you are told to.

But you will not be told to.

I am at my desk with my head up and hands folded in my lap.

But I, filled with an unextinguished wonder, cannot help but follow the rabbit in my brain chasing after loose neurons.

I daydream of a better tomorrow, where I dig out the key from inside my sock to unlock the shackles that have been holding me down since the day my mother and I became two separate beings.

I dream of running into the night where the darkness offers more security than that house ever has.

I dream of a better today where the teachers treat me like the seed that needs watering not a chore to be carried out sloppily.

My peers hear my silent scream for help.

I dream of a better yesterday, where I was raised with love instead of high fists and demeaning words.

But no amount of dreaming will stop my blood from begging to see the outside world.

Nor will dreams stop the sadness from consuming every cell of my body.

I can fantasize about a life where I am fulfilled-satisfied and happy.

But nightmares, hungry for dreams, run twice as fast.

And I am reminded whose DNA I am filled with.

What if the words screamed at me during my youth find their way out of my own mouth into the ears of my children?

What if I can never find the compassion inside me to hold a sobbing child burned by a cruel world?

What if I cannot be better than them?

I awake in a hot sweat, with panicked eyes searching for a glimmer of light.

The dreams run back into hiding under my bed and the nightmares glare at me from the corners of my room.

I am here.

I am alive.

I remind myself that no, I will not be the parent to lock away my child, leaving them feeling ashamed of loving life.

I am not my mother.

I will not be the parent that works all day, shutters away at night, and cannot offer emotional support because sharing feelings isn't cost effective.

I am not my father.

Nor am I an abandoned house, for I am rebuilding my home inside of myself.