The Come Up

Chapter 13 - I am my Mother

                    It's been two weeks since the incident. The block has been quiet since Francis moved away. I guess whatever garbage he was mixed up in left with him. These days my eyes are red and my face is tired. I've been ignoring all of Trev's phone calls and I've hated myself more than anything for it. I should want to hear his voice, I should want to visit and see his face. I should. 

As a girl friend, if I can even call myself that anymore, I should want to hear from my boy friend who risked his life protecting me. Someone who I put in danger all on my own.

I should want to see or hear him 

But I don't 

I can't see him in there 

And every time he calls, I see him in there  

Deranged look on his face, his soft eyes hardened, anger in its depth 

My skin crawls and my stomach aches

I can't hear his voice if it sounds drained and depressed, I can't answer the phone

I can't answer because I wont be able to speak 

Like my Mother, I will just be able to cry 

And what an odd thing that would be

Me on the other side of the visual so clearly marked into my brain

My entire arm wrapped around the phone cord, crying 

Eyes teary, mouth open 

No sound escaping, just words I wish I had said on the previous phone call I ignored

I have been plagued with memories of her crying against the kitchen counter top

Back hunched over, head placed on her arm

Sometimes she cried so hard, I thought she may throw up

She would cough and cough, then before she could take a deep breath

She would dry heave 

I am not my Mother

Or maybe I am just like her 

Maybe much like her, I can't see him in there 

Maybe she couldn't bare it either and now I can't bare it 

Maybe she wore her heart on her sleeves so now I can't wear it 

Maybe I have heard so many of her mistakes, so when niggas step to me I can't hear it 

Maybe she let her walls down so mine can go up 

Maybe my heart is guarded because hers got cut up 

This is why I don't write. 

Because when poetry flows from the wounded, you get wounded poetry 

This is why I don't write 

Because when I can't show my emotions

Poetry shows me...

This is why I can't write. 

Fuck.

This is exactly why.