Lauralee Weinland, Disposition

I’ve often wondered where I came from. I came into this world with a scream so loud the doctors still remember my name, their grey coats forever looking down upon me as Most Angry at Being Alive. I didn’t come from house parties, this I know. I found this out when my eyes rolled back in my head and I crashed onto the cold, hard floor the old stolen rum from the cabinet on the left made the world a kaleidoscope of technicolored memories, dots and flashes like the world’s saddest rave club. I wasn’t born from dancing on the coffee table til the light beams in a gentle reminder that the world still turns. I could never be the one to watch the clouds roll by without wondering how my insides would look splayed upon the nearby trees. My mother’s brain is full of maple rosy moths, butterflies and gentle bees they fertilize the life that’s flourishing there. Mine resembles more the Silence of the Lambs. My genes are built from a blood alcohol level of .45, the baby lying lifeless on the grass, the oil money that’s covered in dirt, the red wine bottle smashed on the granite counter on the day Christ was resurrected. My double helix has spots missing, wires crossed and weaved like the holiday sweater I am forced to wear for the camera, the lens can’t focus on what’s hidden underneath. I share with my mother in face, but mine never quite contorts into that beaming grin