Dear God. I'm Just A Kid.

So... Danny and Hosanna both did some Spoken Word/Slam Poetry testimony tonight. That kind of poetry isn't something I've done in a while and I felt inspired.

Nicaragua, nineteen forty four.
Latin American Aristocracy
14 years old, pregnant for the first time.
World War two at its height
Bombs could drop
Any Day.
Any Time.
Any Place.
Dear God, I’m just a kid.
Nineteen sixty two.
Revolution in the Air.
Sandinistinas wave guns in the air.
Contras wave guns without a care.
Twelve years old.
One Older sister
One Younger.
Momma. Papa.
All three Tias.
The shot could come.
Any Day.
Any Time.
Any Place.
Dear God, I’m just a kid.
Momma’s drunk on the couch again.
Ten years old.
She shouts.
She yells.
Fists in inebriated rage.
It can fall
Any Day.
Any Time.
Any Place.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
That’s my lineage.
It’s built into my genetic code.
A
U
C
G
My RNA.
My DNA.
Seven years old.
Grandpa drunk in his room.
Screams. Yells.
Tells me I’m too fat.
Tells me I’m too dumb.
Tells me things…
No kid should hear.
Dear God, I’m just a kid.
Eleven Years old.
New House.
New Sister.
New Life.
Sitting at the table when I hear my mom’s cry.
Daddy ain’t happy with his wife no more.
Daddy ain’t happy with this life no more.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Thirteen Years Old.
Daddy in Greens, Blacks and Tans.
Makin’ Uncle Sam proud.
I want you.
Long Finger points down at me.
“You Just Grew Up”
Three younger sisters.
Single mother of four.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Still Thirteen.
Freshman year.
Unwanted. Unhappy.
Alone.
I’m not good enough.
They say.
I can’t succeed.
They say.
Watch me fail with flying colors.
I say.
Three F’s.
Too smart to be dumb.
Too Dumb to be smart.
Seven leafed plant.
Grass ain’t always green.
Thin smoke.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Fourteen Years Old.
She had Red hair. Red Lips.
Black Shirt Black Pants
Tall Boots Silver Chains.
And a Rainbow Flag in the air.
Jesus Freaks say God hates me
Lesbian, Dyke, Bi-sexual whore.
I say he who is without sin,
Be the first to cast the stone.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Fifteen Years Old.
Daddy’s back from the war.
Momma’s a single mother of four.
My hearts ripped out an all torn up.
No Friends.
Razor marks on my thigh.
All I want is to be high.
Misery.
Doldrums.
Alone.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Sixteen years old.
Production Stage Manager.
Burning Bright Theatre Company.
Took me six months to climb to the top.
And at the top I stayed.
I have a responsibility to my director.
I have a responsibility to my actors.
I have a responsibility to my school.
The success of all on my shoulders.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Seventeen Years Old.
Daddy dressed again in for the Red White and Blue.
No more hate to hate him with.
It’s gone.
And so is he.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Eighteen Years Old.
One Year done.
Three or Four to go.
Come home to an empty house.
Momma lost her job.
The legalistic perversion of Christianity prevails.
Repo man is almost at our door.
Creator of the Universe we need a miracle.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Eighteen Years old.
Get a phone call from home.
“Shay, they found a spot on my lung.”
The C word blares out at me like a cop car pulling me over.
“They think its cancer”
I drive.
Panic attack off highway 99.
I scream. I cry.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
Three Hours later.
I arrive.
“Shay… she’s in a lot of pain”
Oh how I could wish I could strike that image from my mind.
Erase it somehow. Someway.
The sight of my mother,
Pale faced.
Eyes Squeezed shut.
In agony.
In pain.
In turmoil.
My mommy.
Dear God. I’m just a kid.
A few days later.
Putting number four to bed.
Six years old and smart as whip.
My Baby girl.
My Baby sister.
I tell her a story.
And she asks if mom is gonna be okay.
Dear God. She’s just a kid.

A Conversation

"I can't do this" She says quietly, staring down at the coffee mug in her hand. Across the table, his newspaper slightly drops revealing eyes that stare into her soul.
"Yes, you can..." The gray sheets crinkle as they are folded up and disregarded on the table.
"No, I can't." She pulls her eyes away and stares off into space. "It's too much." her voice is hardly above a whisper.
The coffee pot drips in the back ground.
"I would never ask you to do something I didn't think you could handle."
"I'm not old enough. I'm still a kid!"
"So grow up." his tone is harsher than he means it to be. She winces. He doesn't apologize. It needs to be said. A tear streams down her face. He takes a deep breath as silence permeates.
"I fucking hate you" she cries loudly. He winces, but regains his composure.
"You've said that before." He looks back at her. "And your still here."
"I mean it this time." she says, jawline hard.
"You've said that before too." Her jaw doesn't soften. His eyes do. His hand rests on her arm now.
"It's not fair..."
"It never is." he sighs sadly recalling memories from a long time ago. "Hmmm" he says a few minutes later, after becoming vaguely aware of her voice addressing him.
"I asked: why is that?" He stared hard for a minute before turning away.
"Because the world isn't right." He says it like its the most simple thing in the world.
It is.
"Why me?" her mouth is dry, so her voice is hoarse.
"Because you can handle it." The hand on her arm moves to her shoulder.
"But I can't." she protests, pushing him away. She isn't strong enough and he snatches her wrist as it flies toward him.
"Yes. You. Can." Eyes lock and he doesn't let go of her wrist. "You don't have a choice but to." A long silence.
"Let go." She commands. There are rapidly fading red marks as he slowly opens his hand. It won't bruise. She slides back into her seat as he sits down, only closer to her.
She isn't saying anything, her hands shake as she doodles on a napkin.
His elbows press into his knees and his hands press into his eyes. His breathing is heavy.
"I just don't want to be alone." He didn't expect her to speak. "I just can't do it alone." She starts crying. "I can't do this alone." she buries her face in her hands. He lowers his eyes, before looking back up at her.
"What on earth makes you think you're going to be alone?"

Still shaking.

It's night.
I'm shaking.
It's a result of 6 hours of sleep in 48 hours, a hot pocket in 24, and a venti blended mocha in 3.
I can't help but think it's because of something else.
The nurse comes in changes out the IV, adds more medication, does an ultra-sound, records the amount of fluid that the tube vacuums from her lung.
They tell her things; me things.
Diluted hyrdro-cordrin.
Axenol
Prefix followed by morphine.
I can't process it.
She tells me to talk.
I can't think of anything of value to say.
So I talk about literature, history, my weak grasp of theology.
Word for Word class discussions.
It's the only things that are making sense right now to me.
They make no sense to her, in retrospect, but she listens anyway.
She falls asleep at about 3:30.
The room isn't quiet.
Her breathing is raspy; not the breathing I'm familiar with.
The machine applies air pressure to wraps on her legs.
It's to prevent blood clots.
It sounds like it's breathing for her.
There is a tube coming out of her side, vacuuming fluid from her lung.
Every minute it hisses.
Other things beep.
Each beep has a different pitch.
Lights on. Lights off.
Every hour. Every half-hour.
Nurse in, Nurse out.
I can't sleep.
I can't think.
I can't even cry.
It's the dead of night.
I text a friend under false pretense.
A failed attempt to try and stay the terrifying feeling of being alone.
It's the dead of night, the conversation doesn't last long.
Too much pride to call someone.
Desperation is unbecoming.
So I sit and I stare at the bed.
I'm still shaking.
I haven't showered since Monday afternoon.
I try not smell my clothes, myself.
The smell of a long car drive, sweat, greasy hair, and hospital.
She wakes up briefly. She's thirsty.
I get her a cup and she falls back asleep.
Functioning on Auto-pilot.
Pull out a book.
Read the same sentence until I finally realize it.
Put it away.
Stare.
Stare into the dark until light peeks through the blinds.
The floor looks like its on fire.
The sun has finally risen.
New Nurse.
I'm still shaking. I don't think it'll stop anytime soon.