what do we have?

I am close
so close
to the Buttercup finish line
of what the grieving time
might
be

and yesterday
I saw them, those two children
that live inside me

I had help learning to look inside myself
and I heard the echoes
of the zygote of a song
a game of
Hide and Seek
I knew it was Ani
and the words I heard
singing and swaying
in my mind
were telling me
the anger
lives
regardless
of who the owner is

I heard that I should
stop apologizing

I see two children

One is about 11.
Her hair is blonde and she does not know
how
to make eye contact
she looks down
her shoulders curve inward
her hair is barley
washed
and Oh!
how she dreams

like Cosette's floating castles
she imagines worlds
so much more gentle
than where she walks,
cuddle parties with lovers who hear you
and share so loudly
it is clear you are not
the only one talking

yet
she lives without dreams
widely awake
aware
and scared

her adaptation is her rigid frozen fear
doing what has been
barely
asked of her
imagining the layers of pain
that exist below
each unspoken
no
The shame of the fact that they were ever
unspoken
at all

and

then

the other child
is older

Her hair is jet black
dyed

and she,
with her tattoos and piercings, and fiery straight ahead eyes
she carries every Angry

she cuts them off
their words
their attempts at suggested connection
she'd cut off
parts of them
if she could

this time
the problem is his
and the anger
it comes
and comes and
comes
and

there was a protective parapet
and the crumbling of it
was candy magic
for her drooling decadent needs
needs that were so loud
so real.
so loud and real they were all there ever was

and even there, the anger came:
her fists and car hoods
her head and metal doors
broken fingers from thick desk tops
and the bottom of so many
bottles of wine
even the dream of the twitch
of the steering wheel
at just
the right
moment toward the arching stone bridge
and there were night drives
with the lights off
and doors opened
legs
opened

wounds

opened

and she
did not consent to ANY
of the pain
 and she will
cut you
although not deep enough to draw blood

she WILL leave you
block you
bar you

she is so young
so tough
so scared
so very
very
scared

anger is not
a primary emotion.
It comes from fear and hurt.

I come from fear and hurt.
And I, I am old.
I have seen each of those. Worn the faces
lived the lives and had the same name
I hold them still, and more
inside my chalice cup

there are so many cracks in it
so many myriad meandering fissures
some are filled with gold
some with mud
some with silent screams that have no body
some with a body
that has no voice

I hold
them all

I can hold
them all
I know I can

It just
takes...time...
time and space, but I can do it

Trying to let myself be me
 so strong
to let myself have time to SIT
long enough to hold them all

to heal them all

to listen and comfort and calm
them all

for they are all

just me

And so,

I
breathe.

for ultimately....that is all we actually have.
This moment, right here, right now.
To breathe.