When you are older. Some nights, on instinct, your chest will tug itself away from the bed.
It will not matter that you now live in a neighborhood where bullets typically do not vacation.
You will still hear them. You will still feel your mother pulling you towards a broken floor.
You will still smell like wood and splinters.
In the future
You will date men that taste both of gun powder and sawdust who will remind you of your childhood.
You will make love to them on the floor like they were broken too
and like you missed the way
splinters felt in your lungs.
Your neighbor sells drugs out of his apartment. The crack-heads always think your door is the one with the magic. They leave their wands on your doorstep. On your way to school in the morning you find Fairy dust on your doormat, this is the kind of sorcery your mother warned you about.
When she takes you to church you pray for the junkies. There is a man who plays piano.
Sometimes he thinks you’re a musical instrument too. He touches you like he expects you to sing along. This is when you learn addictions cannot be prayed away. This is when you learn that church is much like the local drug spot where junkies come to get their fix.
This is when you learn Jesus is a drug dealer too.
Crap. You’re pregnant. You’re not even 16 yet. Shit. Stop crying. It’s ok. You’re good Lees. Stay in school. I said stay in school. You shouldn’t have let them kick you out. You should have cursed at your guidance counselor. Said something smart like “Bitch I’m pregnant, not stupid.” Well, I guess pregnant at 15 can be construed as stupid. Ok. I take that back. It’s ok. You’re not stupid. Stop crying. What do you mean he left? Like he’s gone? You know what? Fuck HIM. It’s better that he leaves you now. It will teach you about gravity and space and men who will love you like a black hole as if they can swallow you without chewing. Your stomach is starting to globe now and you feel like the prettiest piece of earth don’t you. It’s time now. Look, no one will be here for you. The operating room is cold. Ask for an epidural. You worry about giving birth. You’ve gotten used to owning two heartbeats. You don’t want to be empty again. You don’t want to flat-line. Stop crying. It’s ok. Giving birth is different. It’s a beautiful kind of abandonment. The doctor will hold the knife that will slice you into a mother. She is 14 now. She’s beautiful. Just like you. I swear. You did a good Job Lees. You can cry now.
© Elizabet Velasquez. Published by permission in Centro Voices on 24 April 2015.