Chew on This

I look in the mirror
and see a woman
who wasn’t there a year ago.

There’s a toughness in my flesh,
like a ripe banana peel
you just can’t seem to tear off
with your teeth.

And when you do,
you’re left unsatisfied
by the bitter mush
of what you thought was sweet.

I’m not sweet anymore.

The fruit basket of my life
was once carried
by the careless promise
that everything would be alright

if I just made everyone else’s life easier
by making myself heavier.

They keep asking me
what I want from life.

Do you want the truth?

The kind you have to chew on
until your jaw hurts?

There’s a father-sized hole
in my chest.

There’s a hole
where my grandparents should have been,

a hole
where my sister should be,

a hole
my mother is buried in.

I am one large hole
of what could have been.

How was I supposed to want
when I was still waiting
to be given what I needed?

I’m not the sweet girl I used to be.

I am a semi-bitter woman,
optimistically sad.

Not a glass half-full
or half-empty --

because what do you call it
when you don’t even have
a glass?

I look in the mirror
and see a woman
who wasn’t there yesterday.

There are fingerprints
on the glass,

where her hands were
as she tried
to pry herself out.

Now there is nothing
to take a bite of.

She’s gone.

So stop asking.