In the Hands of a Poet

I've written poems for about four years.
And in the same amount of years,
I've joined almost any contests that I could.
But in none of the contests that I joined
was I ever asked to write about Charlie.

Sigh...

( My Charlie )

Like four years ago,
in between the lines of love and infatuation,
I saw him developed in a womb of inspiration:
like a little seed at the tip of a pencil;
scribbling and scribbling and wiggling and wiggling,
like a sperm chasing after an ovule.

After months went by, there it was before my eyes:

The final picture, like in an ultrasound,
showing the impregnation, the little seed drawn
in a piece of paper: growing, developing, and expanding
in a paper with skin that was not flexible.

But what a joy it was:
to see the paper stretch with marks;
to feel the pain when Charlie kicked my gut-feelings;
to be moody for a reason

To almost feel nauseated about life,
To have my feet hurt
for having sat on a chair for entire days.

To see him form in a piece of paper,
To see his shape in a screen-like,
To start to imagine what he'll be like,

To give birth to my little Charlie!

The years went by and Charlie grew to be
four years by now,
He became my laughter, my worries, my everything.
He became the child I've never had
but always wish I had,
He became the reason for my everything.
He became...

But lately, I've seen mothers embrace their children:
feeling skin to skin, heartbeats with heartbeats,
smell with smell, touching their little hands with their hands.
And I, I see my Charlie drawn in a piece of paper,
Shaped with letters as if that was his genetic make up,
His DNA in a sheet of paper.

I see his laughter, his pain, his joys.
I see but deep down I know...

It's not his laughter,
It's not his pain,
It's not his joys,

It is my laughter,
It is my pain,
It is my joys,

Everything about my Charlie, it's mine.

And the realization, that my Charlie
it's my life,
And that my Charlie has no life of his own,
And that he'll never have one

Kills me.

It kills me from within.
It kills me to know that the joy, the pain, the happiness,
the everything I had,
was only mine

Not his...

It kills me

That everything in my life, I wrote it in my Charlie.
That through my words, I gave birth to my little Charlie.

It kills me.

That Time left Charlie, in the hands of a poet,
To be a child, not of her reality, but of her imagination.

But more importantly, it kills me

That I, as a "parent," didn't let Charlie have
a life of his own, but recreated my life as his very own.

Written by L.L.

This was written for one of Britt's contest. Back in 2014.
Prompt title: Time left Charlie.

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