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

Who Made Me Me.

They say
you can’t change who made you you,
But I would rather deny that fact and struggle coping with the fact until I turn blue than to accept that what I’ve been told was really true.

And although they might be right, a last name and blood relation doesn’t make a family.
It doesn’t more or less when everyone sees my parents, their hopes and dreams, what they achieved and want to be and then... well, me.

I have my father’s temper and my mother’s eyes, the ability to lose control and hide my worries in disguise.
Until only one word makes the chamber topple over, the straw that broke the camel’s back - except mine has been loaded with bricks and stacks, nails in the way - laughing when the poor animal might dare to sway.

My love is sappy, like in Romeo and Juliet,
Something simple and mundane,
Of course something I could never get.

I have my creative mind, a way to make words, tears and letters flow onto pages and create something remarkable that could make my ancestors cry about their own individualities locked in cages.

I have my granny’s kindness and my grandpa’s discipline - genes that have existed years and years into the past, just as my mother has been.
The eyesore carried by generations I got to carry as well - though no one asks me how I manage to, my heart is slowly turning blue - but of course I wouldn’t tell.

Speaking of my heart, the source of my life I get to keep, how do I stop feeling everything so deep?
How do I lead confrontation when it has led nowhere in the past, how can I know for sure kindness and words said by relatives weren’t actually the last?

I might not understand my father’s impatience with the throttle, nor my uncle’s obsession with remnants of alcohol in his bottle, not my mother’s way of putting others first and my grandma always feeding everyone’s gentle thirst.

I might not understand my purpose, not that it might already swim on the surface - just an inch to grab.

I cannot understand the emotion in my stubborn heart, the way I love and break apart.

My mind can’t comprehend there is a version of me resolving from my mother and my father, their parents and past.

I bleed the same, carry my body in the bound name.

Yet I can’t change who made me me, who I came from, what blood courses in my veins, whose emotions and attributes hold my mind in tight bound reigns.

So, if not told different, my heart will continue to feel everything so deeply, and my mind won’t stop worrying about others,
I will never stop not talking about other people’s bothers, and may my body crumble during that time and fall apart,

I will always be told that I wasn’t
that different from the start.