Recent tragic events occurred in my family that’s been testing whether I will forsake my journey to save myself in order to save some others. I am passing the tests, recognizing the patterns, and (of course) transmuting the energy of the lessons with reflective writing.
Here is what I wrote quickly before I slept last night:
THE FAMILY GLUE
I watched how my eldest sister,
mixed with resentment and love,
cared and provided for us younger siblings.
Bound at the hands
that were still developing
by the chains of a duty —
enslaved to an assignment —
not her own.
But those hands would not keep us together.
They could only nourish our bodies
with food prepared.
Those hands wrote songs she would sing to our souls.
Pass down clothes and relationship notes.
But, woefully no, she could not hold the weighty shards.
The fragmented pieces of our hearts
were increasingly more jagged and too sharp.
Our mother wounds cut deep.
So I, the last born of many miraculous mistakes,
became a resource of relief.
I sacrificed my inner peace
to absorb their toxic turmoil
transmute and levitate it to enlightened comedy.
Cuz if you don’t laugh, you’re gonna cry.
I was the spiritual glue that kept vibrations high.
The psychological glue that battled for them
against narcissistic abuse.
And it worked till my bottle ran dry.
Till I looked into the reflections of rejection
And saw my efforts were merely a projection
A sad deflection to my own need for protection.
So I dissolved my glue from each sinew.
I watched to see if they’d get a clue
That it takes more than two
to keep tangoing in this large group.
Instead, our pieces drifted and grifted
further apart
to get lost in the dark.
It ain’t easy finding the will to be the glue
to sustain what doesn’t improve.
For now, time is mute.
Preshate y’all for tuning in.
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A WORD!!!
I hadn’t ever seen it that way, but — yes, the last-born is like the family’s glue source. Thank you for sharing that concept in your poetry