Undone

In the thick, black silence of my home,

where dust collects on the shoulders of my childhood books

and the kitchen faucet spurts out a pathetic stream,

where neglect is convenient and made into habit,

I begin to unravel myself until

ribbons of nature and nurture pool at my ankles.

I recall how I never learned how to swim,

angry at how I gasp at a loss of air

for what seems should be second nature,

and remind myself that survival looks different for everyone:

from cast away mouths and firm handshakes,

to displays of pearls and woven frowns,

these are stories of survival.

In this evolution of cell to self,

we forget that people must adapt

to worlds made both unkind and kind,

and some less kind to others.

I watch my dad sink further into his bones

each day he comes home from work,

mouth of fiery principles and truth

stifled by a costly upperhand,

for compliant silence was never in his nature,

but this is what you must do to survive.

When I grew up, he told me this world is full of bad people,

a Hell that has undone many,

but everyone unraveled to their bare nakedness

is just trying to survive in worlds,

in some less kind to others.