I Have My Mother’s Hands

I have my mother’s hands.
I was never one who could lead a crowd,
So I sang with the people
And nearly drowned.
And I have my father’s hands, too.
Sometimes, the knuckles, they turn blue
With rage, not white.
But I’ve not once raised them in a fight.
My grandmother’s are there
In the nails kept bare
Because yarn causes cracks and flakes.
And polish chips don’t help when you bake.
I see generations in the span
In the space between fingers, in what I can
Or can’t do.
One day maybe I’ll see you
And your hand, so small, so pink.
Sometimes I want you so bad, and I think
Of the history passed beyond you and me,
A future maybe I’ll grow to see.
But for now I’m alone, walking the land
With the memories held
In the palm of a hand.

I Wish I Still Had Scars From You

I wish I still had scars from you.
Because when I remember
how I hurt you,
I want to rip my skin
into shreds of paper
that blow in the wind until I am no more.
I wish I could bleed,
tear at my soul
until nothing exists
but the blood and the bone
of my very being
and I am alone.
It hurts to recall,
a pit in my stomach
growing and absorbing all light and life
until it sits,
gnawing at my heart,
indulging in each beat with relish.
And I’m sorry.
There’s a passive aggressive bone hidden
somewhere within the ribs,
maybe the third one down,
and it poisons my mind.
And I’m sorry.
My blood is ichor,
but the devil’s instead,
and it scorches and twists through veins
until boiling into one unleashed act.
And I’m sorry
that I can’t find the words to express it.
That I have to be rude.
That I pushed you away.
Because I can’t have people close
when I fail to live up to
the expectations
of myself.

At The End

At the end
or perhaps, the beginning,
there was me
and you,
a boy,
a girl,
stuck on the edge
of a wheel,
feet skimming the grass,
hovering,
staring.
Hands itching closer,
closer,
fingers stretching
as much as fingers can,
bones pressing at the fabric of skin
until nothing
except a spark,
static,
the universe itself,
lay between the outstretched hands
And the wheel turned,
grass brushing
bare feet,
soft skin,
and the distance grew,
shrunk,
melted away
in the mist of the day
that had become night
in the time it took
for two hands
to touch,
for fingers
to brush,
for a beginning to end
and an end to begin
and a wheel to turn
the cycle again.

See Me

Can you see me?
Sometimes I can’t. The reflection
in the glass
is not the same face
I know.
The shapes are there,
the nose, the lips,
the curl in the frown of confusion.
But the eyes are different.
They’re not mine.
Can you see me?
Trapped behind an ocean
of ideas and thoughts and voices
that used to be mine,
that are now lost
in time.
I can’t remember, forget,
I’m stuck, alone, tangled
in memory and regret.
Can you see me?
Sometimes,
I can’t.

So Many Left

I’ve decided, to start off January, that I will write once a day, every day. I found some prompts, made a list, and I’m slowly checking them off. They might be terrible, they might be nothing but pure drabble, but they are something. So here’s January 4th’s, So Many Left. It might not be good, but I liked it.

Scattered across the ground, in small piles of forgotten letters, discarded objects, baubles that once shone; these mementos of a life long past, they glitter in the haze of remembering. She sat there, staring at the items strewn across the room, a lifetime of items.
So many left, she thought, picking through the nearest pile. So many dreams, memories, tokens of a life she remembered in flickering dreams.
Behind her, three boxes. Keep, Give, Toss. A life, boiled down to three boxes.
“How’s it going, kid?”
She turned around, still crouched on the ground, a letter clutched in her hand. “It’s going.”
“There’s a lot of things.”
“So many left.” She sighed, standing and stretching, staring. “How did you do it, dad? When you left.”
“Same way you’re doing, kid. Keep. Give. Toss.”
“Does it ever get easier?”
“Does life? Dinner’s in twenty. I’ll yell.”
She waited for the footsteps to leave before turning back to the room, staring at it for all its worth. The pale walls, the faded spots where pictures hung, nail holes and tape holding the room together.
“There’s so many left!” she cried, head falling on the table.
“So many left?”
She raised her head, eyes too haunted for an eight-year-old. “So. Many. Left.”
“I don’t think that’s correct English there, kid.”
“I don’t care. There’s just so many.”
“Of what?”
“Of Everything.” She dropped her head back to the table. “So many math problems, rules, people, cookies…”
“Cookies?”
“Too many cookies means I can’t eat them all.”
The chair slid out from across from her, and her father sat down. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to fix that.”
She wiped at her eyes, expecting tears, finding dry eyes. “There’s always so many left, isn’t there.” She turned back to the room and the piles, picking through the pieces and filling boxes. “I guess I’ll just have to fix that.”

2019

2018 was a year of being. That should be said about every year, but sometimes it isn’t. Though I understand more about life than I did a year ago, sometimes I still feel like the little lost teenager starting a new school for the first time, books clutched to my chest, eyes wide at the world. And is that really a bad way to be?
I forget my age, at times. Sometimes I feel seven, joyful and exuberant and enthusiastic about little things. Sometimes I feel fifty, keeping up with slang and talking about work ethic and being professional. Sometimes I feel my age, lost and ready to enjoy the world with all the emotions wrapped with a bow.
2018 allowed me many things. I explored more of the world than I thought I would ever. I visited parts of my home state I’ve never visited, I crossed three states in the span of a week. I met family I thought I would never meet or see again, due to distance or deaths or extenuating circumstances outside my control, and I visited a state that held no interest to me previously but in reality is pretty cool.
2018 brought me a job with people I would have never met or thought I would meet. It brought me friends I never dreamed I would have, and a happiness in being social that I never thought I wanted.
2018 brought a lot of things.
But it is 2019 now, and it’s a new beginning. A brand new start to this thing called life.
I wish I could predict where it will lead me. But what would be the point of the journey?
I will say one thing, though. I am going to continue in this little corner of my universe and write about everything and anything I want to. If it’s daily prompts I finish but don’t share, drabbles that are too long to be considered drabbles, reflections or rambles or anything in between, I will document it in some way. And if you want to join me, I’m okay with that, too.
Let’s make 2019 never forget a single one of us inhabiting this planet we call home.

Love,
Victoria

This isn’t what I want to write. I want to write tales, tales of adventure, of love. Of loss. Soaring epic fantasies that span worlds.
Yet I can’t.
I can’t find a voice, one that fits the stories that I want to spin. A voice so full of magic and wonder that it makes you pause.
Yet I can’t.
I find myself writing half-baked stories, ideas that don’t feel right. Ideas that, in other hands, might be beautiful. Might sit on a shelf in a bookstore, someone else’s name emblazoned on the cover. But not my name, never my name.
I used to dream of my name on a book, one that people loved. Growing up, I was to write the next Great American Novel, so much so that it felt a part of who I was supposed to be, who I would become.
Now I don’t dream of that, because dreams are jinxes that haunt my waking moment. If I dream it, it won’t come true, because nothing I’ve dreamed has come true.
And the secret dreams, the ones hidden behind the curtain in my heart, those have.
Maybe I don’t want it enough. Maybe I’m not trying enough. I’m not skilled enough. I don’t read enough, write enough, think enough for this to even happen. Maybe I should stop trying.
Maybe I should stop trying.
If the thing that I was supposed to grow up to become hasn’t come true, and I am grown, does that mean I am living a lie, breaking every promise I ever made to everyone I looked up to in life? Does this mean I am the embodiment of failure? Does this mean I am lost?
Maybe I should stop trying.
But I don’t think I can.
Sure, I might have fallen far from what I thought I would do. Perhaps I will never find that voice. Maybe stories aren’t in the forecast of the future.
But I don’t think I can stop.
I like writing, and reading, and hearing what I write and hearing MY voice. If I can’t fit the stories I want to spin, then I’ll have to find the stories that do.
And maybe, just maybe,
My name will be on a book.