NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: Day 19

Unhappiness is a genetic 
trait, passed down 
amongst the 
women in my family. For 
as long as I can remember, 
Misery’s hid in the crooks
of our eyes. Where our
tears were taught never
to fall. Our eyelashes 
learned to
be strong: hold things keep
our eyes open. What happens 
next is 

So, I’m sorry, if you wanted
to love a whole person. Two hands
that divvy responsibilities, two
feet, on soda cans, balancing 
the weight so neither gets 
too heavy. I'm made with one of each
taught only to extend. 

But I can string together
what sounds like a prayer, 
for a Friday night Kiddush 
though neither of us 
will know what we’re saying. 

 I am a pauper
because you think talk
is cheap. I can only
 string words together: backwards
hearts and upside down squares. 
It’s like us, geometry: 
it looks right—but it’s
not. 

And I’ve thought of
about a thousand ways
to tell you that.  But infinity
is the opposite of definitive
and our thumbprints are 
so unique that we could 
try to match them up 
forever but they will never be 
the same. 

I would rather not
blame the people
who built me 
but I am a flawed 
machine. 
My tears are blood,
my spit is blood, the 
way you pronounce 
my name as you fall
asleep is blood. The 
proud I cannot make
you is blood.

And I am unhappy.