When Your Card Gets Declined At Therapy | Poetry Collection Part 1 ©

Ancestors.

The air smells heavy and sweet of oranges and cinnamon.
Sun hits the kitchen window and I feel alive, a feeling so uncommon.
Sometimes I start to wonder how this life could be so perfect to summon.
And my lips hum away a steady tune, a strangely familiar song.
I bake a tray of my favorite cookies because murder is wrong.
The smell fills the kitchen and overtakes the scent of oranges and cinnamon, until everything reeks so sweet and chocolaty - so strong.
My hands knead the Dough, as I am reminded that my ancestors washed their clothes the same strenuous tedious act.
How their skin became callused and their nails broke
under the lingering gazes of their husband sitting inside observing, just to provoke.
The kitchen clock ticks away in a steady tact.
When the cookies come out of the stove and the heat strikes my nose, I am reminded of all the women that died before me on a pyre, because of the same ginger colored hair of fire
that I now tuck the loose strands of away.
Humming an oddly familiar melody to a song, I bake a tray of my favorite cookies to prove that murder is wrong.

I look at the stars almost every night because suicide
is not right.
And I am sure a few of my ancestors thought it too and yet landed on the same deck, like a stack of playing cards,
Their scars
Displayed on the open, how they were disgraced with such inhumanity because they chose to reside.
Every page turns into a chapter and a chapter into two and more
But there will always be an unread one, maybe only one side, may the book be as great as possible.
Because the author decided not to write it, write the lore
And hide the insufferable.
I look at the stars every now and then, to remind myself that suicide is not right, and it has never been.

I wash my hands very thoroughly, because stains can not be erased.
As all my ancestors did, their callused skin coarse from soap, just because they have been disgraced.
Everyone bleeds, some just not the same, and some wounds stay unopened to the public, because of shame.
In my ears, I swear I hear the screams - of agony, suffering and relief - when I wash what was not mine to stain down and down, further and further, away into the drain.
Everyone bleeds, some just never show it,
Grief doesn’t vanish, love just overgrows it until everyone ignores the hidden pain and only is fazed
of the flowers that choose to grow in place.
So I wash and wash my hands, very thoroughly, although some stains can never be erased.

I watch my bloodline unfold,
Because everyone I have ever met has told
Me to cherish all my features, coming from ages and ages, where mother nature was the teacher of love.
I can not hide who I am or what made me me,
And I am proud to carry my family line in me, something given from above.
I am proud to be a part of humanity, and I will never shake to be.
So I bake a tray of cookies and wash away the grime, look at the stars and listen to the steady grasshoppers’ chime.
Love should not be forbidden, existence should not be a crime,
But then I smell the obnoxious scent of chocolate and sugar, and realize that maybe for now it’s not the time.