Poem: broken scale

A life measured in numbers,

two days here, then three there,

basing my schedule on the clock.

Split the holidays, the weekends,

alternating school breaks,

basing my life on legal agreements.

Every Tuesday, then every Saturday,

packing my bags up once again,

basing my calendar on the cycle.

 

My bags strain my back,

full of my favorite clothes and stuffed animals,

who are forced to move around with me.

They are a physical reminder,

of the weight I constantly carry

on my shoulders.

 

I see a family in the street,

a little girl swinging on her parents’ arms –

arms with hands that hold each other,

and hands with fingers that hold rings.

And all I can think is

that used to be me,

that could be me,

that would have been me.

 

All I can think is some variation of,

why can’t that just be me?

 

How can I feel homeless,

when I have two addresses?

 

I guess that’s what happens

when your family portrait gets ripped in half,

and you try to piece it back together,

but the parts don’t match anymore.

 

I guess that’s what happens

when your support system is irreparably shattered,

and you wish you could fix it,

but the sound of the glass breaking is too much for your ears to bear.

 

I guess that’s what happens

when you try to maintain two separate lives with two separate families,

and you try to balance your disjointed life,

wavering on a forever broken scale.

 

– Lexie Brooke 🙂

P. S.

Just want everyone to know that I’m perfectly fine and happy, and I love both of my parents very much! This poem is somewhat based on my life experiences but is also definitely a big exaggeration from what I feel 🙂