By Mac Guerreiro
Eye was thirteen then,
My mother’s eyes held hurt,
Because of my words,
They were describing what happened at school,
“Why did they stop talking to you?”
Eye didn’t know really,
But part of me knew,
And my mom did too,
So she told me what eye had to do,
She said,
“People like to throw rocks at fruitful trees,
Grow too tall for their rocks to reach,”
Eye grew indeed,
Outwardly,
Yet tonight eye was made aware that a hefty part of me did not,
It was made clear to me viscerally,
And eye don’t know what to do,
Because eye feel like eye offended you,
Eye feel wrong and deserving of what came my way,
Even though that’s not what’s in my brain,
“Maybe she’s just busy”
“She didn’t mean to hurt me”
“He’s right, why can’t eye see her this way?”
All thoughts eye can’t help but think,
All thoughts that keep me on the brink,
The brink of telling myself Eye’m valid,
And of saying the opposite,
Eye didn’t know eye straddled this line,
It was my incorrect understating that’s this wound had been closed for some time.
