Accidents

I didn’t mean to be here,

sitting up on my bed in the country, mother

in the room across the open door of mine

and my father

down the steps in his,

like some dungeon,

dark and cold

just like how he likes it,

down below on the ground

level near the dining room.

I didn’t

mean

to

be

here

or sick or feeble or incapable

because that’s not what I was taught —

neither by example nor by reading materials,

of which we had plenty —

but instead, failing

the way I have,

like a star falling out of favor

from the sky

and in my descent

am wished upon

by someone’s

mistaken

perspective of my downward

motion.

 

But I am

here

broken, wrapped up

in medical tape

to keep

the pieces of me

together

like a mummy

and under my Mom’s mindful ministrations

I mend and meander

away from my moribund journey

and into a mistaken

sense

of safety.

 

Mistaken?

Because I didn’t

mean to be here,

this is all accidental

from my parents, to my illness,

to my recovery, to my learning

to everything

nothing of which

was chosen by me

and

they are all

accidental

moments

and it’s time

to stop

submitting

to them.

 

I am not an intersection

of circumstances but why have I made it

so? In acceptance

I

have

failed

me.

 

And so I fell.

 

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