“I need to write a poem”
Were the first words out of my mouth when my mother told me about
The Letters

One letter arrived one day, postmarked July 1st, 2014
I don’t know when it arrived, but that day
I guess that day her soul earned it’s wings
That day, that one day
My soul crumbled as hers rose to the heavens, with that piece of paper
that had Apology scrawled all over it in that handwriting of hers that
Didn’t change one bit

I was watching my family extra closely as my mother read the letter out loud
I didn’t want to see any of us hurt anymore even though I knew in my heart
We would get through this
We’re Zelinskis, strong and forgiving
We open our hearts to perfect strangers and welcome them into our home with hugs and laughter and game nights that don’t end at midnight
We are one in suffering and one in rejoicing
We wear the teachings of the bible on our shirtsleeves and kindness drip drops from our eyes
My dad says
We’re all children of christ

But Children still get hurt
My sister, she chose Laughter
My brother, his face was a blank canvas as I rubbed and rubbed, trying to see through the white blanket of paint that masked his emotions
My sister in law told me the Truth
My brother, I don’t know, I just hope he listens to his heart this time
My sister, she has a wedding to plan
Me,
Maybe I’m the only one who wanted to be angry
Maybe I’m the only one who sees their pain even though they can’t
Or maybe I’m delusional and no one’s really affected by the Letter

We’re still children
I’m still bouncing around the house, following the older kids around like a lost puppy
My sisters are still my heroes and my brothers
Are still my knights, my Protectors, the ones I could sass and make fun of because they
Did the same to me but with much more force than my small voice could carry
We’re still children
I know nothing of The Letters
Instead, I’m welcoming Her into our home again with a tray full of Grandma’s famous chocolate chip cookies and the goofy grin of a six year old
I’m meeting Her eyes again
Only this time
I know she’ll leave
This time, I know how much time I have

So I’ll write my letter now
And instead of remorse and anger
I’ll fill it with good times and Remember Whens
I’ll put it in the mailbox, swipe the red flag up
And wish on the mailman that you’ll get it

“It is time to write,” she says
I open a new Word Document.
A blank sheet.
My mind does not want to write an essay.
I write in verse and
chopped lines
not straight paragraphs that drone on and on about William Faulkner and his acceptance speech.
My mind, it drifts off and thinks in flowery words, much too flowery for an essay.
My fingers start typing and words appear on the screen.

Enter.
Type, type, type.
Enter. Type, type, type. Enter.

My thoughts appear in verse and William Faulkner goes unnoticed.

How many times have I written about the whirlwind of a storm inside my mind instead of
whether or not cohabitation is a good thing or
speeches about equal access and the themes in Harper Lee’s To **** a Mockingbird?
How many times have I given into my urge to write and relieve my brain of the pressure that gets built up instead of writing things that will earn me a grade?
The answer is often.
The grade,
Just a number
The conceptions?
Just words

What I write in procrastination?
Everything that bleeds from my heart.
The low grade I received on my speech because I couldn’t be bothered to write about horrid subjects when my soul yearned for something greater?
Worth it.

Once I met a man
who called himself
the Dark Poet
He spoke but quietly
in hushed tones of wisdom
Might I be a fool to check the year
but I could have sworn it was
the great Poe himself
reincarnated through this man
I laughed at the possibility of the truth and
shrugged off the obscure thought
he said I should laugh often
that the sound of laughter
is a sound the world has been deeply deprived of
there we sat on a park bench at dusk
with the fluorescent streetlight flickering above us, insects buzzing and dying
He spoke of treacherous times
and
the past that should have been left behind
He told me,
“The past, much like the present, is inescapable. Try as you might to let it go, but still will it linger in the dark crevices of your mind”
I asked him if he would want to relive the past
He folded his hands
There was something about the way he held himself that made him look so unnerving, yet naked and small
I immediately regretted my question, but he looked at me with a glint in his eye and whispered
"No, child.
As many days as I have seen of rain, I know that there will always come a rainbow. I look for the rainbow.
I do not wish to relive the past, because the rainbows I saw were the most beautiful rainbows in my life."
He stood up then, brushed off his pants, and walked away.
I sat on that park bench a while longer, pondering what had just happened
It started to rain, but I did not get up.
Instead, I let the rain soak through my clothes and chill my bones
I stayed on that park bench until it stopped raining.
Though the night was peculiar, I knew one thing was for sure;
I would always look for the rainbows.

She was a hurricane
a tempest so true
so strong and indestructible
blowing through existence
and soaking everyone
in her way
day by day
more fell wounded
from her rage
but ignorant
to the truth
inside
too big for the small town box she’s locked inside
she wants to matter
she dreamed of gettin’ out
for herself
yet she worries
what
if…
she was fighting a war within herself
endless heart wrenching vindictive battles
she lost
every
one
she’s drowning
she doesn’t care
she’s had enough
of the paper towns
the paper people
the paper lies
sooner or later
the paper will
tear
and
so
will
she

The colours of a mirror are foggy, but lucid
I don’t see my reflection,
But colours of a girl I remember being

Dark purples and greys, she’s bruised and scarred
Shards of glass line her hollowed out, bloodshot eyes
Ghostly pale, she’s barely alive

I watch as she transforms before me
Her colours are metamorphosis and she’s the revitalized butterfly
The greys and purples swirl into blues and whites

She’s stepping out of the shadow of who she was
The colours of the mirror are brighter, more vivid
I recognize this girl

The colours are clearly defined
I see shades of blues of sensibility and confidence
She’s stronger and exuding life

The colours of a mirror are the colours of honesty
I see my reflection
Not the girl I was

But the girl I am.

There’s so much pain and suffering in the world.

Who am I to ignore their cries?
The cries of desperation and yearning that go unheard
Into the foreign hours of the twilight zone
Become silenced

Hopelessness walks the streets
When most are sleeping
Restlessness is lurking and breathing life into the cold, dark air
The drunkards of the desolate bars
Passed out on park benches, broke and intoxicated

The clock strikes Twelve and time freezes
for a moment
Shadows of amorphous figures dance amidst the moonlight
Prancing through the city in their time
Racing down avenues and gliding between buildings

The lonely man taking a late night stroll becomes a wax-like statue in mid-stride,
His head hung low, hands in his pockets, and his shoulders hunched up around his neck
The trees, bare of leaves save for a few that haven’t fallen off yet in Winter’s attempt to come early
Stand tall in the pitch black, their silhouette merely outlined against the glow of Midnight

The clock strikes, motioning One o’Clock

All is silent

The suffering

The crying

The….

Dear Wish Granting Factory
I know you said you are not the world
But for a minute,
Can you be?

Dear Wish Granting Factory
You asked me what I would wish for
If you existed
Right now, in this moment, I believe
You exist

What do I wish for?
Oh, Wish Granting Factory
I wish to know the sensation of feet slapping against pavement and lungs burning so bad that you feel you are going to faint
I wish to know that the muscles in my fingers will not fail me when I spread them and cross my arms over to make the Nerdfighter gang sign
I wish to know what it is like to look at myself in the mirror and think
I like the way I look

Dear Wish Granting Factory
I wish to see myself clearly through the eyes of someone
That Someone Who will one day look at me like I am the most beautiful thing in existence
I wish to know that that love exists and it is not just a figment of my imagination
Dear Wish Granting Factory
Do William Darcys really exist?
If so, please point me in that direction so I can find him

Dear Wish Granting Factory
I wish to make a difference in this society in which I am the minority
That my voice may be heard loudly and clearly even though it trembles
That my story be told truthfully and I, a person, a human being with feelings and emotions and thoughts that are not invalid because I have a disability and are therefore “inept” am represented as I see myself
A strong, confident, young girl who is living her life the way she wants to see it and nothing will hold me back.
Disabilities do not define me now, nor will they ever

Dear Wish Granting Factory
I wish to live to see the day when I meet my birth mother and face her
As a stranger, though her daughter
And tell her these words
I love you
I forgive you
I missed knowing you

Dear Wish Granting Factory
Sincerely,
Z