memiors of the broken

Unfamiliar, familiar

Shivers scratch at my knees while I steal glances at relatives.

My buffering mouth leaves me no longer able to communicate with them;

For my tongue is an immigrant and I am no longer bilingual.

I wish I could go back to a time where my heart beat wasn't so loud ,

My hands were less shaky, and my anxiety attacks were less painful.

But each time I break eye contact with cousins, I'm left crippled, silently shivering in my hot seat.

I am not a family person, but I used to be.

And despite my desires my tongue is forever a foreignor.

I don't know how to act around them anymore.

With my genesis snatched from its scripture I'm left ageing in unknown territory;

Becoming familiar with its unfamiliar culture and unpredictable weather.

Slowly but surely appreciation took over the flavored rainy days;

Becoming my home;

My culture;

My sweltering heat;

My rainy days.

A place I wasn't originated from held the power to make me feel a sense of belonging.

However, when thrown back into the uncomfortable heat of family members,

They talk in surprised tongue of how much I've grown and how long its been.

Leaving me to question the existence of time and just how long it takes to forget someone.

To lose touch.

To become strangers with childhood best friends.

To forget the laugh of your favorite auntie.

To turn inside jokes into flat-lined conversations.

To grow into someone else.

A background noise within a stereo of laughter in the kitchen.

A fly on the table.

Quiet when left unnoticed

Unbothered unless provoked

Even with the blaring music coloring the air,

I couldn't help but be ashamed of how little of a difference it made of me seated there .

The thought endlessly confirmed as passing relatives continued ignoring my presence with a smile as they danced their way in circles around the room.

Couldn't they see the mute immigrant at the table?

Time still passes after short week long visits.

It only drives me further from the girl I used to be.

Annoying,  childish, young

I used to be the staple of loud conversations, now i sit in my seat with open ears and a buffering mouth.

A stutter making me allergic to the unfamiliar, familiar environment.

Notice I don't spit upon my scripture.

I only long to recover my broken tombstombs;

Reappearing in the hearts of my city and those who came with.