I started this some months ago, but I finished it today…obviously it was meant to be bisected by time and experience.

What is it worth? This bind comes from an accidental consequence. Then, for a lifetime, we are family. But what does that bond allow? And is walking away from yet another family member wise? No harm has been done to me, at least not to the extent of my father’s influence. But this progression through acceptance pains. Sandpaper on sensitive skin, I’m raw from the realizations. I am the only one not interested in a conversation about negativity, emotional slights and the importance of planning. That’s not to say that I am the embodiment of perfect relationships. Like dinner, there’s enough to go around. You will hear within the walls far away, that they get it. “She’s unusual. A girl in the shape of a wanna-be. Yes, we just let her ramble at her leisure. Eventually she will come around to our side of the road.” The backbends they ask for are impossible for me. I can’t touch my toes, nor succumb to the will of the family.

I expect less of those accidental relationships than I did in the past. I held them up like trophies to be admired. I don’t know where the dirt came from. Perhaps I left them on the shelf too long, forgetting that it was my responsibility to keep them clean. The years have not aged them well. I don’t know if I have the energy to clean, polish and maintain them on my own. There is help in the kitchen and outside my house. Shouldn’t they bear the burden as well? Perhaps not. I’m too lazy, too angry to do it alone.

The conscious relationships I nurture, with friends far away and close to home, ring in my ears with a different but familiar timber. Colored touchstones with familiar blood distort and reform within the context of success and failure. How hard is it to cut the fabric? What does that bond allow? Is it temporary? Fair-weathered? The “accidental” consequence of friendship contorts into the almost-family that I made myself. Round fingers, tipped by chewed nails, bleed in the attempt to make the shards softer. Perhaps I wither beneath the whispers. “She is mundane and crazy. Give her room to hang herself, and prop her up only when she is about to pass. It’s better for both of you if she can’t be the hero.” But I wonder, shouldn’t you bear the burden as well? I am too angry and to lazy to try it alone.

Perfection exists in hopes and imagination. Truth, in fact, reveals little of the happily-ever-after in the movies and novelettes. I taste the bitterness of failure, of recognition spoiled by being taken for granted. It’s so easy to change things into success. I long for nothing more than polite consideration and true attention. If your next breath is meant to extol on the success of your new life, you will never hear what I have to say. Listening soothes nerves better than apologies. Presence in the moment does not equate to self-absorption. We all flounder in the shallow end of possibility. I will not allow myself to be beached and bleached to white. My darkness, mystery hovering within raw emotional behaviors, gives shade enough to scurry beyond this.

After much consideration, I’ve come to understand that accidental consequence and conscious choice are not all different. Wounds bleed regardless if the giver is blood of blood or blood of soul. But I have a band-aid for all things. The backbends are possible, but I will never be able to touch my toes, nor succumb to the will of one who is outside me. Good riddance and hello… for now.