you done told your moms to move off this street years ago when you decided to become a part of the local social group. you all wear red as a symbol of solidarity amongst the city street corner where yall congregate. you stand out from all the other creatures with your red. it makes you different from the rest. you wonder why your moms has to be here. why she cant move to a new place where you can pretend life is fair.
as soon as you pass the threshold onto the old sidewalks there, you feel the glare of the wolves on your neck. they always watching whenever the smell of your presence hit the air. they know where your moms lives too. so they know when you make moves back and forth from there. last week, some lone tramp threatened you on the way there. you know they want all you hold dear. they see you survive, and in their eyes, taking that from you might remove the blue from their lives. that's what they believe on the inside.
your moms is home when you use your backup keys to get in. you call her name but only sounds respond. not her voice but when has your moms ever responded to you with respect. you start your search for her, thinking about how having a different moms would've afforded you a different present. maybe you wouldn't have needed your social group if your moms had a better job or better access or better respect from others or a better family or a better anything else than what you already have.
"momma! where you at?"
the house is cluttered with the paraphernalia of generations. families of grandparents and their grandkids line the walls. you always notice the one frame with your moms and you and your siblings all crowded in front of a poster meant to look like the backyard you never had. you walk past these photos and paraphernalia. your moms is not in the kitchen as usual. somewhere in the house, there is a loud bump that disrespectfully demands your attention.
"momma! what you thumpin for?"
the house is a capsule of ignored history. generations of mommas and past-like-yous watch suspiciously from the wall. they smile because you are some distant relation to them, but that's what separates you from them. the bridge between you and them is broken beyond repair. the wolves are more important, and the concrete jungle in which they lurk in demands all your energy. this house is a capsule that you think deserves to be buried. even the stairs, and the connecting hallway, and the small room only call for reflection to a time that wasn't coming back. they didn't offer any inspiration on how to walk forward. they didn't have the wolves like you do.
"momma! why won't you answer me!"
you slam open the same door to the same room your moms has been sleeping in since you existed. your mom's moms slept in the same room before her. it is the same room that your grandmoms had once slept in. it is the same room that they died in too.
YOU ARE READING
urban fairytales
Poesíait's easier to believe magic doesn't exist so we don't feel guilty for being too stupid to see it (c) daisyology / kandutchie This poem book is completed.
