a car accident in slow motion
By gothamwanes
7.
you are eleven months when you first begin to walk.
wide-eyed and drooling,
you stand on wobbly feet as cameras flash around you.
you extend chubby, infant hands towards them and
you let yourself fall back down again a second later,
there’s a hitch of breath around the room and
you giggle.
6.
you are seven when you get your first scar.
not from a biking lesson gone wrong,
not even a rough tumble with one of the neighborhood kids.
it’s something born out of purpose,
curiosity, speculation,
a new thing to bring to show-and-tell.
you steal a pair of scissors from your grandfather’s sewing kit,
and make a small incision on the palm of your hand
the droplets bead up, red and red and red
and you think,
mine.
5.
you are twelve when you learn abandonment.
it’s midnight, and you’re tucked inside bed,
the silence of a sleeping house thrumming around you.
a soft light comes filtering through the hallway
and you wake up, squinting.
a shadow falls across your bed,
a brush against your forehead,
long hair fanning across your face.
your name
murmured in the broken tatters of a whisper
(and everything’s compressing inside you, why ―)
a door clicks shut,
you exhale.
(it never opens again.)
4.
you are fifteen when you think that there’s something different about you.
boys never really cut it for you, you think,
you prefer long, winding legs, a subtle fragrance in the air,
soft skin with hard eyes and harder smiles,
chipped nail polish and wild grins,
desire is a slow burn in your throat.
the girl from biology smiles across at you,
and you learn to swallow the ache.
3.
you are seventeen when you get punched in the face.
well, not really, but it would have felt better if you had been.
you are seventeen and it’s christmas and
you’ve just said the magic words to your family
three simple syllables
that feel sticky in the back of your throat.
your aunts, uncles, grandparents,
your father
(and the one that never came back, you can never forget her)
silence louder than any jingles bell rock they’ll sing tonight.
their harsh, judging gazes cut into you
and
you wonder if it will leave a scar this time.
2.
you are twenty-one when you first feel like an adult.
and it’s not alcohol that does it,
or the euphoria of finally ripping away from your family’s suffocating grip,
not even renting your own apartment with your girlfriend.
it’s a simple purchase
after a drilling week of
work, classes, work, classes,
phone calls to a home that doesn’t quite feel like it anymore.
it’s on a whim that you drag yourself towards the bakery downtown,
the allure of fresh bread wafting into your senses.
you press cold hands to the heat of the glass pane,
and you breathe, a steady inhale, exhale.
(a memory flickers,
a mother with a child, hands clasped together,
eyes wide, cheeks flushed from the cold outside
finger pressing against the glass, pointing at one of the pastries,
oh please momma could i get one?
a smile, a slip of money, the warmth of another hand ―
and then still, only a memory.)
you give the money to the cashier without thinking
and when the heat of the bread presses into your hand,
you can’t help but think
you still feel so cold.
you walk out
and the door clicks shut.
you would say that you didn’t look back but
your mother didn’t raise a liar.
1.
you are twenty-one when the car hurtles towards you.
0.
you stop trying to remember.
you are eleven months when you first begin to walk.
wide-eyed and drooling,
you stand on wobbly feet as cameras flash around you.
you extend chubby, infant hands towards them and
you let yourself fall back down again a second later,
there’s a hitch of breath around the room and
you giggle.
6.
you are seven when you get your first scar.
not from a biking lesson gone wrong,
not even a rough tumble with one of the neighborhood kids.
it’s something born out of purpose,
curiosity, speculation,
a new thing to bring to show-and-tell.
you steal a pair of scissors from your grandfather’s sewing kit,
and make a small incision on the palm of your hand
the droplets bead up, red and red and red
and you think,
mine.
5.
you are twelve when you learn abandonment.
it’s midnight, and you’re tucked inside bed,
the silence of a sleeping house thrumming around you.
a soft light comes filtering through the hallway
and you wake up, squinting.
a shadow falls across your bed,
a brush against your forehead,
long hair fanning across your face.
your name
murmured in the broken tatters of a whisper
(and everything’s compressing inside you, why ―)
a door clicks shut,
you exhale.
(it never opens again.)
4.
you are fifteen when you think that there’s something different about you.
boys never really cut it for you, you think,
you prefer long, winding legs, a subtle fragrance in the air,
soft skin with hard eyes and harder smiles,
chipped nail polish and wild grins,
desire is a slow burn in your throat.
the girl from biology smiles across at you,
and you learn to swallow the ache.
3.
you are seventeen when you get punched in the face.
well, not really, but it would have felt better if you had been.
you are seventeen and it’s christmas and
you’ve just said the magic words to your family
three simple syllables
that feel sticky in the back of your throat.
your aunts, uncles, grandparents,
your father
(and the one that never came back, you can never forget her)
silence louder than any jingles bell rock they’ll sing tonight.
their harsh, judging gazes cut into you
and
you wonder if it will leave a scar this time.
2.
you are twenty-one when you first feel like an adult.
and it’s not alcohol that does it,
or the euphoria of finally ripping away from your family’s suffocating grip,
not even renting your own apartment with your girlfriend.
it’s a simple purchase
after a drilling week of
work, classes, work, classes,
phone calls to a home that doesn’t quite feel like it anymore.
it’s on a whim that you drag yourself towards the bakery downtown,
the allure of fresh bread wafting into your senses.
you press cold hands to the heat of the glass pane,
and you breathe, a steady inhale, exhale.
(a memory flickers,
a mother with a child, hands clasped together,
eyes wide, cheeks flushed from the cold outside
finger pressing against the glass, pointing at one of the pastries,
oh please momma could i get one?
a smile, a slip of money, the warmth of another hand ―
and then still, only a memory.)
you give the money to the cashier without thinking
and when the heat of the bread presses into your hand,
you can’t help but think
you still feel so cold.
you walk out
and the door clicks shut.
you would say that you didn’t look back but
your mother didn’t raise a liar.
1.
you are twenty-one when the car hurtles towards you.
0.
you stop trying to remember.