Things an Adopted Child Learns:

I can’t make you want me

I can’t make you love me

27 years of learning breaks open in my chest

A seed was planted twenty-seven years ago

I just ripped it from my breast

It’s covered in blood and gristle,

It’s rough to the touch and has a foul stench

I need to cut out the branches, they’re woven around my ribs and heart and that little light in the center of me, I like to call my soul

Maybe I’ll set it aflame,

Cauterize the wounds even as the tree burns

As it turns to ash in my throat, cleansing my speech with it’s smoke, making space in my heart and around my lungs.

I think I’ll put it in a jar. Place it on my altar. 

A reminder, to make sure I keep the fire burning.

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