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.