Tears Upon Depiction

 

Tragedy 

  is not just delinquency

    I have gone through; 

It is a destruction, 

   An obliteration of space within us

  That we all bare. 

I have grown up in filth....

  for as long as I can remember; 

In over my head, 

  Before I had a mind to grasp- 

     Before I knew 

     Before I took my first step. 

Do we cry 

  When the movies run- 

The deluge of shattered bits, 

  Still trying to make up 

     A whole heart from what is left- 

Do we cry, then, 

  Because so much of it is so repressed? 

Words will never depict the breaking of our mind, 

  Or soul, 

     Or self...

The way the weight kicks in 

  Witnessing it for ourselves. 

  They can never show the heaving of breath,

      Or the break in our heart, 

          At the moment of our loved one's death. 

The words do not quake the air, 

  As we die silently,  

  Or mirror in us another story's tragedy. 

They do not bear the crack in the chest, 

  Or the feelings of betrayal 

     That of us, God left...

  They do no justice at all, 

      By themselves alone. 

  Alone, 

They are shallow. 

Shallow like the ache 

   Abandoned by a father at 3 years old, 

      Left to mother's friends 

   Who would rather molest and rape. 

While he played house, and gave 3 children 

  A clean home. 

Financial sakes. 

  Vacations and love. 

At 40 years old, 

   I watch myself take back on 

All my mother's household chores alone; 

  Once shared between my Fiance and I. 

Staring at the still palm trees, 

   and an air of tragedy I breathe in. 

I think about him.  My Father. 

   And it still aches. 

  The tragedy sits in my chest, of words 

Searching for forms to take. 

  I was always the one, 

Left so completely alone. 

  Questions rattle my doubt. Considering more tragedies that I'd rather leave out. 

  Considering whispers and gossip

From those in circles I ran with...

  When I had his ring on my hand. 

Considering slighted tongues and being thrown away like trash. Wondering why my sister...

  Now refuses to call back? 

I run the doubts against a failing optimism. 

  A fading benefit of the doubt. 

And the aloneness, is still...

  On my deck, looking up, 

And looking out.

  The air is hued with shades of blue, overcast 

Reflections of light through...

  And I see the color, storm blue. 

I finish cleaning the cat boxes, spraying them out. Turning to go in, 

  Heavy inside and out. 

Left wondering. 

  Pondering. 

But most of all, 

  Left with the tragedy of ache. 

Settling it for chores and dinner's sake. 

  though it only settles in...

Because I realize...

 I have to feel this pain. 

It hasn't dispelled. Rather compounded 

  By the extra layers 

I thought I had taken care of. 

  But there is something about tragedy. 

How it sits in us. 

  How it bellows for our view. 

How it will not settle truly at all...

  Unless through it, 

We feel our way through.