Groan

Birthed into black,
my head in a bag
unable to breathe
without feeling the
suffocation of your absence,
slowly spinning my eyes
backwards into the sky
where they cannot be
retrieved.

Raised on baby-bottles
filled with milked soured
by salty tears,
weaned by dirty pacifiers
and torn blankets,
with holes of your making
cut with the same scissors
that separated us
and my bellybutton still aches.

Grown and groaning
for the lost days
of light and fresh air,
your smudging hands,
and crocheted blankets
decorated with promises.
Offered to other
more fortunate babes,
that I will never be.

You ought to remember,
that I didn't choose you.

In The Summer

In the summer
we used to take our mason jars
with the holes in the lids,
down to the bog
where we'd chase the lights
that flew in the night,
catching them, one by one.

We ran through the mud,
the grass and the moss,
with our shoes that lit up
whenever you took a step.
And we ignored the streetlights,
and all our mosquito bites,
because they marked the time to go home.

With our chubby fingers
and our starry eyes,
we searched for more
than what we could learn in books.
Imagination, of a different kind,
an opening, of a creative mind,
we wanted more, more, more.

In the summer
we claimed what was ours,
with a young tenacity
and an innocent strength.
And even when our mother's called,
and our nightly adventures were quickly stalled,
we were still children.

We were children.