Mistake
A Poem
I was once told that I was born a mistake
But that I grew into a miracle.
This knowledge didn’t
remove the sting
of my unintentional existence
The chemistry of stress
washing around me
in the womb lingered.
I was afraid
That if I didn’t prove myself
As profound
And extraordinary as a Miracle
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I would slip back into
something disappointing,
like poor marks on a test.
Desire can be a
double-edged tool.
Holding on to hope
Inflated by perfectionism
Once lifted me toward miracle.
But the string cut my palm
and my arms ached with effort.
It’s because of
something else I held:
An anvil of ‘ugly truth’
The certainty that
I was a failure.
‘Mistake’ still looms large.
But guess what?
The anvil has fallen
Lots of times!
Triggered by lots of people.
But often by my Self.
Some of these people
I still love and still love me.
Some I have never loved,
nor loved me.
The weight of mistake or miracle
Is almost silly now that I know
I will never be either
but somehow still enough.
