O Captain, My Captain

A mentor

must be the hand that plucks you from the sink

washed out,

skin hanging off your body in loose rags.

They must be the ones to scrub your face after you cried all night,

with soap hard as sandpaper,

but it still won’t erase the soreness in your eyes.

They must be the one that make you put down the pills,

hand curling around your own

like the ocean enveloping a rock,

and promise another day.

And it must be always changing.

For wasn’t it my mother, who held my hands

as I blearily blinked my eyes into existence, and

I stumbled blindly into the world of humans?

And I tripped,

floundered,

and fell.

And she wasn’t always there to catch me.

Wasn’t there, in tan standardized buildings

steam punched, pressed, and branded with normalcy,

to catch a girl not pretty, smart, or athletic enough.

Why wasn’t she there at his house

shivering in agony

with the girl that cowered on the floor?

Words coming like spitfire to set my cheek ablaze.

Where every word, and every action dragged past his feet

Like a despicable worm

And he spit on it.

And sometimes I fell,

And the only hands that were there to lift me up were my own.

And it was my hands that turned up my CD player

to drown out the silent screams into my mattress.

The ones that gently coaxed the cat from beneath the bed.

The ones that held tacks like matchsticks to my skin.

The ones that squeezed my nose

sitting on the bottom of the pool

until I was sure my lungs would burst.

And it was my hands that printed out my homework like a machine,

That pulled myself awake every morning.

That did push ups every night.

And it was my hands that did every glorious act of righteousness, and every sin.

Could I be the captain of my own ship?

Nineteen years old and I feel far too young for the title,

My feet sliding around in the oversized boots like a trout on deck

But there were no footsteps I followed into the unknown.

No trail I pressed my nose to,

or handbook to follow.

Perhaps I was lucky enough for a hand to occasionally reach down

And trip me in the right direction.

There was a wolf that pinned me with her blue eyes

and for the first time in years, I was seen.

There was a building with many faces and many eyes

and they told me there was a story worth listening to

within everyone

if you could only press your ear to their heart.

There were two new parents to replace one

and my mother always there.

There was gentleness, and kindness,

strength and fragility.

There was a butterfly girl

reminding me of the beauty that can pour off lips.

There was a boy, so sure and nervous

I pressed my feet to his

and learned to walk as he did.

There was an angry crystal that shone defiantly, hesitantly, brilliantly

and begged I should do the same.

There was a Sunday that smiled and told me to love myself

but I couldn’t promise I would.

But wasn’t it my own feet that took me there?

My own mind there, time after again?

When they disappeared like butterflies at sundown,

I was left with the smoldering magma that warmed my veins,

and sat in my gut.

And could I wear that title?

Could I not embroider it across my breast like a scarlet letter?

I would rather not

sink to my knees on my own ship

holding the captain that will not wake up.

How much easier would it be

to have alarms not only going off in your own head?

For who can wake yourself from a sound asleep?

But I have never had a choice,

And I do not give myself the exception now,

I shoulder myself back into my sailor suit,

my sliders, and my hat.

And I am thankful that I have this.

I have my hands,

That pull me through

I have the ocean at my feet,

I have the occasional nudge at my bow

And sometimes I have a smile that pulls the sails tight.