I Am A Matchbox Stick

I can barely breathe.

My chest has been heavy

for weeks upon weeks,

years upon years.

The future weighing

down my optimism.

My patience suffocated

by the need to be real.

Can’t swallow one more

fake time happy pill,

won’t smile for a crowd

of hating fools.

Only person that pulls me back

is my son

  • He’s so damn beautiful.

Reminding me

not to give a fuck

about anybody

that’s not present in my circle.

Quieting the rage

I feel when questioned

by fools that play the game.

Like why do they

expect me to be graceful

when they question

my need to be real?!

Only for my child

does this deep breath

come natural.

For him,

I’ll take an extra minute

to contemplate my reaction

and not give in

to what feels 

like a rage that I was born with.

Natural as the fire

at the end 

of a matchbox stick

when it meets friction.

A feeling of never fitting in,

never drinking the koolaide

laced with bulshit.

Societal expectations

of happiness.

A pill I can’t swallow

because society

along with her fake ass smile

is poison

and my throat won’t open up

for even one drop of water

to help wash down

the games I gotta play

to sit at that table.

All I know is,

the only thing that’s real

is when I hold him. 

Through a thousand 

thoughts of pain

while my mind 

fights every moment of fake,

my son’s laughter

breaks through,

shattering my misery

like cheap glass.

Clearing a space

for me

that just is.

I’m still a matchbox stick

but with him

there’s no friction.

The ropes around my neck

will always be my affliction

but being his mother

saves me from astriction.


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