|Jan/Feb 2017 Poetry Special Feature|
© 2016 Elizabeth P. Glixman
It sounds awful, but sometimes
I can't wait for my kids to grow up.
I know I'm supposed to be wistful,
envelop them in a cloak of reflection,
clinging to their childhood like they
cling to my pants legs,
and sometimes I am.
But not at the moment, and certainly
not most of the time.
I'm exhausted, hypnotized, waiting for the
secret word that will bring me back to me,
out of my head, from thinking and re-thinking
everything I do, wondering if I've
fucked them up or failed to prepare them
for life in the real world,
whatever that is.
The silent, desperate parts of myself
that need to be expressed have eroded
because someone else's needs have to
I'm worn down from biting back questions
and comments that would only make things worse,
from having everything I do dissected and
questioned and unvalued, like a thousand-piece puzzle
with a missing corner.
I'm dried up from years and years of fixing myself
so that they can have the best version of me
with no reciprocation,
from shouldering the blame for every unhappy moment,
from feeling, always, like the broken one.
And I wonder why I continue to patch my cracks and chips
for the sake of people who keep chiseling away at me
without patching their own.