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We sat around a wooden table

Age old


About fifteen of us

In anticipation

They had heard that I was a horcrux of the universe

Extraterrestrial, intergalactic transcendental diction that I treat like algorithm

Mother told them

I have words painted on my forehead

And verse like scars littered across my heart from anyone who cared to toss me something they thought beautiful

Ask her where I come from

She’ll point to her chest

My father would gesture to god

I’d attempt to write a hieroglyph for heretic in the English language

They waited

In front of me

Lay my story

I told them I was a smoke cloud that seized at holy spirits

This spirit is far from holy

In surprising cohesion with its external cover my spirit is noticeably gifted and bluntly awkward

Fumbling emotions

Shame dripped over each word that strutted off of my tongue to these people

The words hold the pride, not I

Blazing they strike this audience, everything they expected and more ironic how the only thing that a man is confident in can be what brings his misery

These blazing, proud words make my normally steadfast tongue spasm

The words, scars

Across my heart

Like images carved across a cave ashamed of what makes it itself

They’d see the world father taking the word family in his massive, motivated hands

Unintentionally strangle it with the word fear

Out of frustration, send it spiraling through the air, to shatter on the ground

I purposely forgot how to re piece those words together

These fourteen others were family

Scattered shards of shame, fear, regret, misery, confidence



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