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Looking through the streaky smeared windows of adoption
I was taught I was incomplete
That my life would be about
Waiting for someone
A relative or a man
To make me whole through their love,
Bringing together dissonant shards
Of a would-be lyrical soul.
That prayer, that wistful hope
Became the iron which forged
The chains binding me
Into neediness and despair,
A hunger incapable of being sated.
When it became clear neither the relative nor the man
Would ever materialize
I found myself trapped
In an emotional cul-de-sac
Keeping me
From ever really going
Anywhere
But in the same small hurtful circles.
I have the consolation of wisdom,
Now.
My circles are much larger
These days.
I am smiling
And have learned to avoid looking at the world
Through streaky windows.
Now,
I just open the door.
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