(Un)Like My Parents.

Dsc02480by Michelle Seyner01 Sep 2020

I'm told I have my father's eyes,
but his are blue, and mine are green.
Despite what he has seen, he
never really softened.
His gaze is ice - roaming for a
scapegoat to pin blame on.
His cornucopia of failures
wears other people's faces.
I'm told I have my father's eyes
but I do not share his outlook.
My gaze seeks beauty to cling to,
reasons to trust, to LIVE,
distilling hope from the poison they gave me -
reworking my bloodied bandages
into works of art.

I have my mother's hands.
Tiny and graceful.
She used hers to bruise
and bloody -
instruments of ruin.
Her hands tore me down
quicker than I could build.
Her hands reduced me
to a patchwork of scar tissue.
Her hands held the scalpel
to my self esteem,
surgically removing who
I could've been; without the trauma.
I use my hands to write.
To help heal, if I can do so.
To pull drowning people from the water.
To hold their broken parts
in my embrace.

I have my mother's hands.
But I try and repair
the ruins I left in my wake.
I use my hands to hold yours
when you are stuck in the dark
and the only thing I can do
is accompany you.

I have my father's eyes.
I have my mother's hands.
But:
I am nĂ³thing
like
either of them.

18 August 2020.
Michelle Seyner.