My middle earth.

I’m standing in the mirror.

I see the hole between here and there. You know the one. The one that defines you, the one that made you.
Mine’s an “inny,” as so described.
It’s getting more obscured as the years weigh in. I’m getting more discouraged as the years weigh out.

Most folks can add the there and then of it. The umbilical of it. Nourishment. Mother. Genetics. Home.

Not me. It’s just a hole.

Yep. I’ve heard you. I’ve heard you naysayers and scoffers and you, “why can’t you just be grateful-ers.”

Your; “geez Dee, what’s the big deal, anyway?”

I hear you every day. Whether you say shit or not.

You didn’t know that, did you? You didn’t know that the words you say that disclaim my lostness, permeate me.

Permeate me as you strut off to the next room or the next state or even the next country to view your kin, look them in the eye. I can’t see, you see? Get it? No. Not if it isn’t relevant to you.

I saw a show today about a daughter figuring out that her father figure was not figuring for the real father figure.
She KNEW he was real. Her real father. Wow.

What an awesome thing. To see your father, and know it’s him.
Let me repeat.
What an awesome thing. To see your Father, and know it’s him.

It made me cry. Tears running outta my brown iris’s. Yup. Another genetic, “take me for granted.”

There were times along my timeline that me and my mates would speculate about my sires and dams.
They HAD to be movie stars right? Gestation periods being what they are would mean that I was conceived in December of 1965.
We started with Melissa Manchester and Elliot Gould. Both for the dark, curly hair.

Can you imagine letting someone go that’s a part of you?

I can not.

But, yes. I hear you. I hear your: “It coulda been worse and she mighta been in trouble,” theories.

I hear you loud and oh so fuckin’ clear. Because you know me, right? You know exactly how it fucking feels, right?
You speak your language and eat your foods and see your parents, right? Oh yes. You’re right. Knower-of-all-things-right. I see you seeing yours in the right light. See you and envy you. Wrong or right in the feeling of it.

Right?

Me and Lu have our own ideas. She says I’m a hairless chihuahua. I say I’m a native indian warrior. I have to be. How else could I have the skin thick enough to shirk off the fact that I belong to no one, nowhere?

Don’t come at me with your ideologies. Don’t. They do not work on me. They do not, in any way, comfort me.

I still see my middle earth. Empty. The inny.

Does anyone out there want to claim me? I’m up for grabs, you know.

This entry was posted on Sunday, July 8th, 2007 at 10:09 am and is filed under Dna stuff. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.