July 18/21

It’s not like I’ve always known where
I should be or where I belong.
People and places need to claim you
with some certainty and purpose,
especially when you’re young,
so you don’t feel like you’re just drifting.

Growing up, I never felt extremely claimed
or tied-in to my own family.
It was just where I lived and
who I lived with while I tried
to figure out what each day would bring.
I only knew I was living, but no idea why,
or why it mattered.

It seemed like there was always a reason
to fight, or to cry, or to want to escape
instead of to just enjoy where I was.
I’m probably being unfair to my parents
but that’s most of what I can remember growing up:
Someone being angry, someone crying,
and a meek observer wishing on whatever
the next horizon could bring.

These may all be the products of a rich dinner
or a rich imagination, or an overfed sense of drama.
Maybe I’m just being a little selfish or dramatic.
I’ve always been something of a loner at heart.
Maybe everyone else’s family will always
look better to me than my own,
real or not.

I still feel like a bent piece
searching for my own
space in the puzzle.