Dry-Cleaning

When I fell in love for the first time,

my mom said his skin was way too dark for me

and that I shouldn't hold his hand around the neighborhood.

If she could read this now,

she would cry: "how dare you air our dirty laundry?"

But with a smile of relief I'll say

to the version of her that lives inside me and you, reading this today:

I am the dirty laundry.

I am the words left unsaid and the secrets my family never talked about

I am the little and the big things

we pretended not to see

and the oranges we shared under the stars.

I am that first kiss that was given in secret

And the song I could never sing

Despite that terrible feeling

That it was grandpa's last birthday wish.

I am the diaries I never wrote

- afraid of what I'd say between the lines, -

the treasures I hide within,

and the dreams I leave behind.

I am the bra he couldn't figure out

And the sock that protected my knee

When the soccer ball hit it

making a goal for the wrong team.

I am the lies I told

and the truths I now choose to face,

and saying that to you today

means hugging the girl I once was

as well as the adult that blooms,

a little later than I had hoped.

I am the dirty laundry,

the rejections and certificates,

the victories I passed on and the defeats I never admitted

And to try to say what is meaningful

is to greet myself in the mirror.

It means looking at the stains of dirt, blood and wine,

and all those times,

when dinner was way too hot

and my tongue went numb

just because I really wanted a bite.