ix. elpis
from the age of one you are a natural mess:
standing on chairs and splitting your chin open
you stain the carpets with blood—your own, this time
you wear skirts without shorts under them
to sunday school and race the boys down the slide;
your mother hears of it from the teacher
the unerring curiosity of pandora guides you;
your father looks the other way and pretends
to discipline you when you cause trouble
but your messes grow with you and a split chin
turns into a split family: your anxiety towers as
your father leaves—again—but for good, this time
every possibility turns into a ghost of panic;
you're rear-ended by a demi truck on a school day
and you really should have been someplace else
and no matter how long your mother holds you
you can't help but feel the twist of guilt in your chest
if only you hadn't opened so many boxes
caused so much trouble
anxiety is a maybe:
maybe he would have stayed and you wouldn't be
sitting on the side of the road in summer heat crying
because you missed a text and wrecked your car
maybe you would have finished college and not been
the failure on your mother's progress report:
"dropped out at nineteen, practically hopeless"
maybe you would know what to do with yourself
in the world outside of cooking and cleaning and home
but your talents turn to ash under unlucky fingertips
unlucky—
that word
defines your every careful move
from the age of one you are a natural mess,
and from the age of twenty-one you start to hate it.
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Points: 50
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