An Open Letter

This poem has been saved in my notes on my phone since 4/6/13 because this is the last time I could look at this or touch it or try to finish it. I finished it tonight only after deciding to write again. I realized recently writing has been the only thing in my life that has kept me. It helped me find myself and find my way back to what was important through some of my most difficult times. I thought my voice was unimportant and small. It is not. It is clear and cutting and crisp and mine. The most important is that it is mine. 

I was scared to share this. I don't want to hurt my family. But I have been unable to speak my truth because I don't want to hurt them. So I was silent because the wholeness of my story might open other people's wounds and make them look bad. But who I want to be in the world is dependent on the truth that comes only when you find your own voice and decide to share it. 

An open letter to Crack

For every birthday

For every Christmas

And every time I tucked my own

Little body between

Ice cold bed sheets

For every unexplainable tear

And every emotional outburst

For every promise

Of new pants

Or shoes

Or a movie or a toy

For every time

I knocked on the door

And got no response

For every unread bedtime story

For every living room blue glow tv light

At 3 AM

For every time my hunger was met with a wait a minute

And for the time I walked into the bathroom

When blood was everywhere

For bare feet and quick steps

For dark

And for the backgammon set I played with alone

And for alone

Solitude

Solitaire

This is an open letter

For every heartache I couldn’t explain

For every lie I told and

Still tell

For truth that gets twisted

For every time I wished to be an orphan

And pretended that my parents

Weren’t really mine

I have told countless stories

To explain being born to them

Constructed a life that

Looked a little more normal

In which you were not there

Your presence not missed

My fairytale included

Happy endings absent

Of you

But they were just stories

And you were real

You were constant

The only thing I could count on

To occur

To happen

Sometimes I will admit

When you showed up I would be happy

Then I wasn’t crazy

I could justify my stories

Plus I liked seeing my dad talk

And mom dance

I liked that I could get ice cream

For breakfast

And not have to do my homework

I like that I had no curfew

And my boyfriend could spend the night

You were bittersweet

I hated you but

Love that in your presence I could become

As invisible as I had come to believe I was

I could blend

No one cared when you were around

So this is my open letter

How mundane and ordinary

Your presence had become

How dreadful weekends and

Weekdays

Were

How fleeting money was

And how I tried to hold it all together

In the small fist of a seven

Then ten

Then fifteen

Then twenty

Year old

How I'm still trying to hold it all together

And brillo pad dreams

Are fleeting

Like crack pipe highs

I know all to well

How hard it is to pry you loved ones

Out of your grips and this is an open letter

To you

Twitching faces

Glassy eyes

Wire coat hangers and sheets

On the windows

This is the calm before the storm

Of coming down

And withdrawals

How I leaned to tense and brace

How I know how to knuckle down and

Fight

My shoulders hunched in permanent position

Like ink marks that never fade

And stolen dreams I still crinch

At the words geeker

Crackhead

Because the image it congers

Is the shape of mother

Of father

And this is an open letter for secrets

You try to flush

Because even in your young mind you

Know drugs are bad

So rid of drugs rid of bad

But still you cant flush

Enough

There are no porcelain toilets

Big or deep enough to flush

away

A life that in punctuated

By you presence

I am so used to men calling my

House looking for my parents

That sometimes

I answer the phone with

An attitude

Just so they know

We are never here

I am never not angry

I am so used to having the baby

In my bed

That now I don’t even remember

That I am not his mother

Or how my ex boyfriend

Told me my eyes

Told him I was a crack baby

And when I asked

My mother she said

I never used when I pregnant

There is an elephant in the room

And it is you

The neighborhood boys

Laugh at me and want to fuck me

That same ex sold you to

To buy me food

And so

This an an open letter

About

Shame and guilt

And what I wish for you

I wish you a 100 birthdays

Punctured

By your own hell

I wish you eternal damnation

Every time

You think about my family

I want you to spontaneously combust 

For every family you have destroyed 

I want to burn

and feel the pain of choice and dependence 

and to understand 

there are to many Me's who you have tried to kill

because you hooked the people 

who were to love us

At 28 I am still crawling out of the shadows

knowing I am worthy 

knowing I am loved 

that I am more than you

and that my parents are more than you 

and my family although bent is not broken 

and that the carnage left over is not just a sad story 

but the story of finding your way home 

and through forgiveness

and choosing laughter and happiness and joy over and 

over again 

because the 28 year old me knows that feed on the sorrow 

and my own story is one of resilience and rising 

rinsing strong and rising often 

but always rising and always loving