Swallowed in the sea of green and gold and the lost and homeless

Wasn’t graduation a time of celebration, when hats raised to the ceiling meant transcendence of time and space and the in-between? You were out. Out of that prison, that prison so many called home. Skewed perception, am I right?

But that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t some holy night, some speaker of the peace. A flame should have been burning in prayer. But it was distinguished, you could feel it, see the smoke cloud the sun and wash away those green and gold colors so many came to paint their very skin. 

Not mine, no, no, no, never. What is life when all you ever feel is the moment candlelight is blown to ash, and wax hardened to the mold of your finger, that desire to burn like the rest, like you, inside. 

And when I stood before those people, I imagined what the person who called himself my father must look like; what he might feel, if he feels the desire to burn like the wax in its liquid heat, or the wick consumed in flames. I couldn’t stop myself from wishing he was gone, away from haunting my life, my existence, my coffin of safety I made to protect myself from his very draining, needy being. 

He was there against my wishes. I was only a child they say, no coffee for you, but go to college and get a job and pray; I grabbed my diploma, I grabbed my friends hand, my face red, my eyes watering, songs that whispered “they’re just spies,” raced along the inside of my ear and tired mind when I left that stage where so many failed to clap for me and my soft-spoken tears. I faced that doorway where I could see the man I hadn’t seen in years wait with caution. Vines stretched out to me, trying to tangle me up in devil’s snare. Deep breath, walk, “Hey J,” “Hey, hello.” And on I go. Wave of my hand, head bent, what do I do now, now, nothing, sit down.

And afterwards when I could find no one else but that very man who handed me a poem that spoke of pride and love only for blood and made-up words that was a testament to the imagined of what it would have been like to watch me grow from that “baby with blue eyes in my arms to a girl who holds her own.”

All I could do was hold my own, and care for someone who only cared when they had someone back home in their bed to hold and replace that loneliness, burning loneliness. 

Where did holding my own go? When I couldn’t say all the words I wanted to say, that slithered within with such sharp grace. Fake it. Thanks. Appreciation. I have to go. And to go guilt took nest within my gut of monarch butterflies. Can you feel that? Humanity, it’s energy all together and red and yellow and green and blue and purple. I closed my eyes and walked forward with increased speed. Where’s my family? What’s that? Do they exist? 

Nod of the head to a boy that lingered between the two; my face red, my eyes heavy in blue. Did he notice the way the green sweat its grasp as I increased the gap? The way my face held its own despair, regret, need to care and protect. 

And I was near breakdown, always working, pretending for others. And this was just another day; graduation, what did that even mean? I spoke of it to those people who did nothing but fail to notice, rather prizing in judgments. They looked at me with no emotion, I gained power with daggers of words. I told them. My one moment for truth. Beat the butterflies from my stomach, my lips and mouth and tongue dry from fear. Below you, who are you! I cried in nervous speech. Here’s me, here’s to my hard work, pain stakes and broken betrayals. The truth of how they made me feel, how no one notices one another, and we all keep going on without a care. How friendships were made throughout the years for a one-time playmate in the sandbox. A free for all, contest for the rich and famous and loud, yes the loud. I told them, I wasn’t sure of myself, but I can hold my own. With a glance to the boy that lingered between the two, always guarded, I wondered if he heard what I said. If he even cared. That it was done, over.

Like my graduation, like the kindergarten judgments, and stars that shone above an aqua lagoon, me on my back, weightless, my eyes looking for anything to call home. 

Open up your eyes, home is where the heart is, they say.

And good God do I want to know what that means, to give me heart, give me soul to patrol, patrol, survive and control where I can finally hold my own and say that this is where my heart is.