Spotting
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about fucking somebody else
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about needing somebody else
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about loving somebody else
so much so that
you never did get a proper goodbye, did you?
too caught up in the controversy of consequences to
every really see what you were
a seed deceived, she needed you to make me need her
and I just needed an escape clause
you never breathed, 3 weeks conceived
before the stress of our mess deleted you
but I see you, I see you still
your mother’s eyes, your father’s ways
a smile that could have possibly changed circumstance
some days, heart breaks as the pain escapes
I never did get to teach you to slow dance
too busy dancing my way in and out of your mother’s space
or holding her captive in a narrow space
one that I kept tucked neatly away, knowing it would never fill within me
I feel like shit, when I picture what you would have been
5’10 inches of feisty beauty, a woman bent on
pleasing her mother, and making her daddy proud
6 aunties that never got to braid your hair
two grandmothers who never got to instill being a lady
baby girl playing with a baby carriage
ripped away in pain, like the emptiness from my arms
it seems to me that the word miscarriage
is a quick offsetting alarm
ushering in the harm of too many dreams not born into completion
and the deaths of too many things resulting from them dying
like knowing I could never be that example of love that you’d love to seek in the men you loved
snatched away like the weight of a world unknown
the guilt circulates above
the absent tombstone we never laid
and all the birthdays that never came
and wondering some nights, if the beds I made became the grave you were to be buried in
I long for your girlish laughter to be uncovered
I ache some days, cursing the absence, seeing
slender silhouettes in the shadowy backdrops of others
“was it a boy?” your mother screamed that day, achingly desiring a son
and though we were to later be blessed with one
I curse that his sister goes unknown
disrobed into failed chances
reduced to the naked ghost that is blame
she comes to me, jumps rope at my bedside
and I swear she calls out your name
or what it would have been, had I bothered to give you one
but to me you were merely an obstacle
and I crossed over you from the second you were gone
but as heavy as my shortcomings that burdened you to death
are the memories, of you, that hang on
too much of their guilt still speaks to me, maybe
and too much of their pain still seeps through me, maybe
until some nights I find my heart still whispering
sweetheart, honey, princess, baby….
too busy caught up in name-calling
but all I’m hearing are names falling like
sticks and stones, that stick and stone
become heartbreaks in the bones
of a ghost unknown, and the blood
spills in moans
of a little girl gone
until
some things thrown away manage to break
into the madness that was your disaster
crying to me, in a feminine voice that mirrors my own
and only seems to be chasing after
getting her daddy back
but he was too busy, regretting your creation
to ever see you grow intact
instead of picturing tiny hands slowly clutch life
he clung to all the things he lacked
desiring freedom, options, new women to please
instead of being pleased with the woman you might grow to be
I am sorry
still haunted
by legacy unknown, beauty not shown
bold queen to be folded into repressed memories
I am haunted by the thought
that my son’s laughter during infancy
was from the jokes you told in the crib with him
and I apologize to your potential husband
for selfishly stealing a rib from him
I am sorry my inability to cherish your mother’s love
stripped your worth, slowly announcing your doom
I knew you, but found it hard to want you
disconnected, I bled you from your mother’s womb
and I am sorry,
as sorry as the too few tears
that spot cheeks your kisses will never know
you could have been my little angel
but like hell, I chose to let you go
a fall from my arms, a slip through my fingers
a spill from my heart, which couldn’t embrace you
sometimes I stare at your brother and wonder if I could ever face you
the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking
about everything else
instead of
her life
[End Poem]
I feel like writing me this helped me deal with an old emotional burden that I simply tucked away and tried not to notice. I'm not entirely sure if the child that my son's mother lost was a girl, but sometimes, I just feel like she would have been. For a long time, I couldn't even think about the loss, because of the guilt that came with it. God knows the reasons behind all things, and eventually blessed me with a son, named Solace. But the part of me that failed to grieve still could not forget who she might have been. So, I am thankful for these words, and hope they might help any of you who can relate.
the Rare Poet
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about fucking somebody else
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about needing somebody else
this is a poem dedicated to
the memories of the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking about loving somebody else
so much so that
you never did get a proper goodbye, did you?
too caught up in the controversy of consequences to
every really see what you were
a seed deceived, she needed you to make me need her
and I just needed an escape clause
you never breathed, 3 weeks conceived
before the stress of our mess deleted you
but I see you, I see you still
your mother’s eyes, your father’s ways
a smile that could have possibly changed circumstance
some days, heart breaks as the pain escapes
I never did get to teach you to slow dance
too busy dancing my way in and out of your mother’s space
or holding her captive in a narrow space
one that I kept tucked neatly away, knowing it would never fill within me
I feel like shit, when I picture what you would have been
5’10 inches of feisty beauty, a woman bent on
pleasing her mother, and making her daddy proud
6 aunties that never got to braid your hair
two grandmothers who never got to instill being a lady
baby girl playing with a baby carriage
ripped away in pain, like the emptiness from my arms
it seems to me that the word miscarriage
is a quick offsetting alarm
ushering in the harm of too many dreams not born into completion
and the deaths of too many things resulting from them dying
like knowing I could never be that example of love that you’d love to seek in the men you loved
snatched away like the weight of a world unknown
the guilt circulates above
the absent tombstone we never laid
and all the birthdays that never came
and wondering some nights, if the beds I made became the grave you were to be buried in
I long for your girlish laughter to be uncovered
I ache some days, cursing the absence, seeing
slender silhouettes in the shadowy backdrops of others
“was it a boy?” your mother screamed that day, achingly desiring a son
and though we were to later be blessed with one
I curse that his sister goes unknown
disrobed into failed chances
reduced to the naked ghost that is blame
she comes to me, jumps rope at my bedside
and I swear she calls out your name
or what it would have been, had I bothered to give you one
but to me you were merely an obstacle
and I crossed over you from the second you were gone
but as heavy as my shortcomings that burdened you to death
are the memories, of you, that hang on
too much of their guilt still speaks to me, maybe
and too much of their pain still seeps through me, maybe
until some nights I find my heart still whispering
sweetheart, honey, princess, baby….
too busy caught up in name-calling
but all I’m hearing are names falling like
sticks and stones, that stick and stone
become heartbreaks in the bones
of a ghost unknown, and the blood
spills in moans
of a little girl gone
until
some things thrown away manage to break
into the madness that was your disaster
crying to me, in a feminine voice that mirrors my own
and only seems to be chasing after
getting her daddy back
but he was too busy, regretting your creation
to ever see you grow intact
instead of picturing tiny hands slowly clutch life
he clung to all the things he lacked
desiring freedom, options, new women to please
instead of being pleased with the woman you might grow to be
I am sorry
still haunted
by legacy unknown, beauty not shown
bold queen to be folded into repressed memories
I am haunted by the thought
that my son’s laughter during infancy
was from the jokes you told in the crib with him
and I apologize to your potential husband
for selfishly stealing a rib from him
I am sorry my inability to cherish your mother’s love
stripped your worth, slowly announcing your doom
I knew you, but found it hard to want you
disconnected, I bled you from your mother’s womb
and I am sorry,
as sorry as the too few tears
that spot cheeks your kisses will never know
you could have been my little angel
but like hell, I chose to let you go
a fall from my arms, a slip through my fingers
a spill from my heart, which couldn’t embrace you
sometimes I stare at your brother and wonder if I could ever face you
the daughter who
my son’s mother lost because I was too busy
thinking
about everything else
instead of
her life
[End Poem]
I feel like writing me this helped me deal with an old emotional burden that I simply tucked away and tried not to notice. I'm not entirely sure if the child that my son's mother lost was a girl, but sometimes, I just feel like she would have been. For a long time, I couldn't even think about the loss, because of the guilt that came with it. God knows the reasons behind all things, and eventually blessed me with a son, named Solace. But the part of me that failed to grieve still could not forget who she might have been. So, I am thankful for these words, and hope they might help any of you who can relate.
the Rare Poet
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