Unscripted Drunk

I believe I come from the alphabet,
the swirling cursive
on birthday cards received,
the invisible ink
on ones I never sent and

the accent marks forgotten
while letters link to spell
my name in languages of sounds
louder written
than said.

Aleksandra Maria Sajak.

Each letter "a"
hits hints of her frustration
and rage as disappointment
lingers on the "k"
spoken softly through teeth
when I've done something wrong.

Mom, why can't you yell anymore?

Tell me that I come from
a seemingly happy marriage
that's teeming with a vengeance
deep inside,
a soundtrack of screaming over a jar
of strawberry jam broken on tiles,
and a month of attention
from the walls
as neglect kissed the gap
between you and me.

Tell me about your alcoholic father
and how I remind you of him
when my fingers
press down six strings
and dance through the fretted doors
of my guitar.

I embodied him even more
on the 4th of July
when you carried me
through our neglect,
changed my clothes
and stroked the notches
in my spine
wondering where your voice
was going to be in the morning.

In the morning, your words hung over
my bed, as I looked down
to see someone else's clothes
strangling my legs.

They spilled through me,
through my thirst
into the scribbled paper
beside me.

"I love you despite this."

Some things are better left unsaid.