the bags beneath my eyes were specially designed by my father

I got mostly the Polish and the Russian features;

my sister got most of the Italian, but I'm not tallying.

it’s not something I would alter.

I don’t believe in the saying “Blood is thicker than water”.

somehow, I just got lucky with my sister, my daddio, my mama

there are so many times that we don’t see eye-to-eye,

but I still hear myself in their voices when they falter.

and even when I'm fuming

or I'm numbing

or I'm bawling

or I'm sitting in my feelings,

with my shadow

and the anger that I harbor,

my bottom line is that they could never be a bother

because if I were on a plane about to crash down to the Atlantic,

there’s no one I'd rather be sitting next to before going underwater,

and despite the familial pain, the projected shame, the generational trauma,

I'm learning how to cauterize it when it bleeds

or wrap it softly if it needs,

I'm learning that I'm grateful

to be a sister

to be a daughter

while still maintaining some semblance of peace

prioritizing the search for my individuality and authenticity;

it’s fucking difficult to say the least

my therapist keeps telling me i need some time for me

only me.

but I see my parents aging

and the wrinkles when they smile

and it’s strange, right?

when you suddenly clue in that those lines have gotten deeper

you can’t pinpoint when it happened because it’s gradual,

but it feels like it was overnight,

while you were busy making your own life a little larger,

putting it all a little more in order

stitching yourself a bit more put-together 

I know it wouldn’t feel right cutting them off, even for a couple years time.

I'd feel too guilty.

and I know, I know, I know that’s no excuse to heal slowly

to willingly

or, more accurately,

willfully subject myself

while simultaneously aiming to decode this pain, and the learned self-pity,

to practice lowering the volume on the cruel critic that yells inside my head that they gave to me when I was a baby and we were still living in New York City,

to halt the self-sabotage instilled within me,

but that’s my truth right now.

because I want to read the stories in their bones and read between the lines at the outer corners of their eyes

and I know that, no matter what, they try

they try to be on my side

I feel that they attempt to empathize

I know we all have demons

and who am I to wish away the ones that aren’t mine?

I hear myself making justifications,

maybe reasonable, maybe just sorry excuses

don’t think I'm not aware that these are the consequences of abuses I have lived and I have learned

maybe not so dire as Stockholm,

but something from a Wiccan home

two parents raised Catholic, then rejected the faith

yet still tainted with the thoughts that most in this world still retain and think it holy to attain,

no matter how outdated or insane.

maybe just co-dependence lingering in my spirit and in my mind

I do protect my energy, but I'd rather choose to pass the time

knowing that my heart carries them safely inside

knowing that I won’t hesitate to be there at the end of their lives

knowing that, even if my parents were my very first heartbreaks,

I still want to be there for them when i can,

as much as i can take,

even when they exacerbate the age-old ache.