This isn’t pretty

It’s an Aires full moon, a Harvest Moon 

And that didn’t used to mean anything to me

But lately I’ve been borrowing beliefs while avoiding anything that resembles a confessional. 

I used to envy Catholics, quiet pleas and utterances separated by a screen granting a false pretense of anonymity. 

I’ve been hoping for deliverance.

Some days I pray to God,

Other days I speak to you — mouthing fuck you like a Hail Mary. 

And when I use the word “hate” when I relay the last words exchanged, I can feel my friend flinch then laugh telling me “I’ve never heard you use that word before.”

I wonder if you remember the history.

In your absence — anger once reserved for institutions and righteous causes has bloomed. Suddenly, mine doesn’t just flicker before being consumed by you. 

This isn’t poetry and it isn’t pretty,

Every memory I have left of us is intertwined with my childhood.

I think of how my Mother once called me a resentful child, using my elementary backpack to fill it with stones from the garden.

She made me carry it everywhere for days — trying to teach some lesson. 

But I was a child and it was beyond me and my aching shoulders.

I used to wonder if my penchant for forgiveness was far too heavy.

She once told me “my mother warned me I would have a child just like me someday.” 

It still haunts me.

But I used to be resolute. 

I remember standing in front of the banister with her when I was sixteen telling her “I swear to God,” earnestly. The sound of her hand as it swept across my face, I could feel everything burning.

I refused to cry even though I could feel the tears welling. I practiced the art of indifference. 

When you met me — all that had mostly faded into distant memories. 

I didn’t notice when I started picking up all the stones you cast at me, while making a careful ledger.

Categorizing each by the fault I carried.

The way all the callouses of my childhood had softened,

The armor I used to dress up in no longer fitting.

I make believe that I do not resemble my mother bargaining with my Stepfather’s rage.

I used to be afraid of the dark as a child,

I have a memory of my mother grounding me and sending me to my room at night where the lightbulbs had burned out. 

I sat at the bottom of the stairs screaming and crying in fear and she left me there, warning me not to touch the hall light.

The way I had to restrain myself from reaching for it, 

I flinch at every memory.

I used to believe you were the inverse of me,

Sometimes I do not know where I end and all of you begin.

What actually belongs to me?