Underneath my wind-blown skin waits a sore-hearted girl with little to show for her pain-stricken journey. Is it any wonder I’m vulgarly drawn to reminisce of the mystery you leave as you trek onward ahead of me?

I won’t disassociate myself with the truth of my history. I am part of a legacy and in respect to that I project certain qualities into the generation to follow me. I am not the missing stretch. I am not erased.

Yet, in all honesty, I am very much a sharp bend in the river of my heritage. Or at least my reality leans away from my past. Each time I contemplate returning to my roots – the place where the soil is rich from years of churning – I cringe to think I’m the weed that grew up alongside the crop. That I, may be the portion needing cut away? That my absence allows the intended growth?

I own most positions in my life, but this one carries burrs against my skin. I want to be as gorgeous and healthy as the row I grew among. Strenuously as I may try, I do not look like those around me. I took in another. I produce an unusual seed in comparison to my genesis.

That said, I acknowledge, I’m responsible for me and mine. And sometimes, I’m irresponsible for me. But, all the while, I know what peace smells like. I know what guilt looks like from a distance. I know how skin tastes.