I have always been the impatient type. Some may say it’s because of a need to be seen, or a fear of abandonment. It was all of these, yet none of them happening nowhere and everywhere constantly. Nonetheless impatient I remain. I was born July 7th, 2003 three months ahead of schedule. Considering the rest of my life I would be viewed as a set-piece, seen and used when needed invisible otherwise, this was the one true bang of my life. Consequently, the next six months would be spent in an incubator alone, being poked and prodded, like a science experiment. Foreshadowing the trajectory of a life yet to be lived.

When I was four, I underwent heart surgery. What seemed most peculiar to me, and continues to puzzle me to this day is the lack of self-awareness adults have. My family was telling me to be brave and strong, while they were presenting themselves to me as anything but. The adoration from adults masked a fear of the cold unforgiving truth called death. The toys being a plea, a tribute to an unknowing offering of a child. The only truly honest face I looked into were my cousin's’, green with envy to be in my place if only to feel acknowledged. This being my first moment in a hospital, I was completely unaware that the coming hours would unleash months of burning agitation. The scar from that surgery never fully faded away, but simply shortened in length. My father would apply vitamin E by cutting then pressing it into my scar. I imagined it felt like being branded repetitively, without ever fully cooling. The pittance of a life spared was a reminder of the balancing of scales.

My early life was spent primarily alone. My father worked and went to college full time, while my mother would waste her life away playing Farmville and Happy Aquarium. I never felt seen by my mother. I reconcile the lack of relation by viewing her as a woman who was roped into a life far too constrictive then she’d imagined, the truth being much harsher and harder to deal with. Aside, from the occasional visit to a cousin's home or the miracle of a friend; my time was spent mirroring my mother’s attempt of a mental escape; pretending things I’d never experienced and yearning for connection.

Disconnection is defined as “The act of detaching one thing from another.” This definition presumes responsibility that my generation hasn't asked for nor do we possess the understanding to wield it. A preferred definition is "the act of feeling alone, either in a physical distance or emotionally. " An article I read recently said that teen girls of my generation resent technology more than previously assumed and that we yearn for a connection to our families.

I have always enjoyed learning. The smell of a new book, the vast openness of a fresh empty sheet of paper would fill my soul with bubbling anticipation. I felt like I could be as weird and as kooky as I desired without resenting the expectations' others would place upon my shoulders. In a strange turn of events the start of school, the 3rd grade wasn’t the sweet triumph I expected. I scored too low to be gifted yet I wasn’t too behind to receive attention for my academic lackluster. I was suddenly like a book that had once been interesting but, was now novel and presumptuous. The only times that I ever seemed to standout were for bd things or those that I had no control over. I hadn’t chosen to read early. I hadn't chosen to have a death mark or be abandoned by my mother. When I fell behind in math I was seen as a disappointment, and like I wasn’t trying enough. Instead of receiving assistance, I was pushed to either sink or swim, without knowing how to do either. I was left once again, alone. My Dad attempts to bond with me now, and while I try to it seems like reconnecting is much harder than disconnecting. #bevulnerable #contest #spurtsofdark

Fountain waters flow

Like the love from my heart

Struggling with myself

And memories of you.

There are several things I like;

like when your glistening eyes were mine.

Mine, now flooded with drops of tears;

Tears me apart, each second without you.

Sit down for a spell.

Spell my name in the sand, please.

Please me with your delicate art.

Art thou mine?

Your answer? "I am not."

Not anymore, I'm afraid.

Afraid, I am, of losing your love;

Love that I've already lost.

Was it worth it in the long run?

Run back to me, will you?

You are not to my right or my left.

Left me in the dust, you did.

Arising, I walk into the light.

Light up the sky, I pray.

Pray to the Lord for strength;

Strength to move on.

Coin in hand. I stare at the visual

Hoping to find Something that can satisfy

the deep stirring hunger that I cannot dismiss.

Each wrapped confection intricately placed

to tempt me.

Alas, after war between want and will,

I clench the quarter tightly in my fist

and walk away from the vending machine.

There are so many books

If you’d just take a look.

There are books made for cooks,

And for classes I took.

For the watching of rooks,

And collecting of hooks,

And how to catch crooks in their boots that they shook.

There are books about

cooks

who are crooks

that took hooks,

and those crooks used those hooks

to gather some rooks.

Yes. Those crooks used the hooks to hook rooks they could cook.

Though that story was grim, let’s go out on a limb.

Just seek out a whim and I’ll tell you of them.

There once was a Tim,

Who dunked through a rim.

And speaking of him

reminds me of Jim.

Now, this Jim was not slim.

He was not slim like Tim.

Because unlike Tim,

he did not use the gym.

But he had a nice gem

That he bought from Aunt Kim.

And Jim, Tim, and Kim

Went to the beach for a swim.

Did you like that story?

My, was it a glory!

Oh? Was it boring?

I heard you were snoring.

But now I have something that’s quite guaranteed

to keep you awaker than snakes at high speed:

Zippy Ziggy zagged along

As his puppy wagged along

And his kitty dragged along

to the place they all belonged.

Once arrived, they sung a song.

They sung a song that was quite long.

And, after they had sung the song,

In came a bull, both buff and strong.

This bull was cool.

This bull could pull.

This cool bull pulled them all to school.

And, there in school, they learned a rule:

DON’T BRING COOL BULLS INTO SCHOOL.

Leaving school, the sky decided to rain.

So Ziggy and his friends boarded the train.

On the train, they played peek-a-boo

All the way to Kalamazoo.

So, that’s the story.

That’s the score.

Hope I left you wanting more.

If not, CONGRATS! You did endure.

But you’ll be back for the next tour.

You’ll be back again, I’m sure.