Delicately Dancing Around Fate — Kahmya Wilson
Re·gret /rəˈɡret/ verb/ to feel sad, repentant, or disappointed over something that has happened or been done, especially a loss or missed opportunity.
1. The intense feeling that pierced through you the first time you made your mother cry. The way she wept when she saw your father's rage within your dark eyes rather than the tranquility she had carefully poured into you. The same anger that whimpers in fear beneath clenched fists, praying that someone will recognize the pain layered beneath it. You, too, were burdened with the weight of the world far too young just as he was, and you’ll only learn to forget it when it's too late. Only then will you feel weightless. You’re destined to die with this heaviness.
2. The feeling you get when you remember her touch, soft and light like the melody of the music box she had gifted you. The way you mirrored her touch with your fingertips, gently caressing the porcelain ballerina that pirouetted and spun, humming along the faint song. The same one she used to lull you to sleep with.
3. The feeling that finds you when her broken sobs haunt you, reminders of destroyed promises you once sang. The execution of the little girl your mother still mourns. You held the gun of time in your hands and aimed it right at her chest, her beating heart. Her life was in your cruel hands and you crushed her like a butterfly, watching as the iridescent colors clung to your fingertips. Only when she was bleeding out between your fingers did you finally realize the beauty in her fragility.
4. The feeling you get when you look into that shattered mirror, pale knuckles stained scarlet. When you catch a glimpse of your reflection in a fractured fragment, he’s staring right back at you. Your jaw so clenched it aches, the same guarded glare, the same tensed shoulders. You can’t even recognize yourself anymore.
5. The feeling you get when you realize you’ve betrayed her. You’ve lost the softness you had so desperately tried to keep preserved for her. You just want to be gentle again, your mother’s child. You just want to be cradled once more. Held. You’re just like him.
Kahmya Wilson is a freshmen creative writing currently attending an arts school for her craft.