All Roads Lead to Rome… or Home
Veronica Dávila Parrilla
She tells me she’s okay,
Insists that there’s no name for it,
Calls it “bad timing”,
Or uses phrases like “bottled up things”.
She insists that it’s okay,
Tells me she’s sorting it all out,
As though she had a label machine,
Carefully picking up and naming them all one by one.
I see through it in silence.
Because lately,
Your posture has me wary,
For your shoulders are
High up and straight,
Yet your chin remains tucked in.
And your knees,
Shaky as dry leaves,
Help carve the steps you’ve been leaving,
So light I must squint,
To figure out where it is that you’ve been.
Darling, you’re struggling.
But I keep quiet for once.
Because I know what it’s like
to carry a weight blindly.
Because I know what it’s like to have cement on your shoulders
and go swimming in the dark,
my lungs have burned far too much to forget where I’ve been.
Darling,
I know you need space.
Because this weight you’ve been trekking
is not one you’ve seen
and what right do I have
in trying to hold something
that was never meant for me?
Darling,
Hold steady.
Your knees will shake,
And your fingers will tremble,
But for stars to be born,
They must first learn to crumble.
So hold on ‘til the tide reaches your ankles again.
Let your raw beaten skin memorize the crashing of the waves,
Let it become a canvas for the pounding rain
Hitting against your ribcage.
Let yourself crumble,
But don’t lose hope.
Because if Rome was built out of rubble,
How dare anyone say
You cannot be made the same way?