Pride

I sat,
Watching her speak.
Listening to a story I’ve never heard.
The type I read about in those history books I held,
Unaware those history books were holding me.

Knock, knock,
On their door.
A search.
Findings.
A letter from Poland.

I don’t recall the details,
But, ink on a page,
An unaccepted address.
So they put her father in a cage.

That was the last she saw of him.

Knock, knock,
On their door.
“Your father was ill,
Your father died.”
Then I think of my father,
Full of that Russian pride.

That Russian pride,
That killed that man.
Great grandfather,
All for the Motherland.

War,
Based on the pureness of your blood.

And I sit in this house.
A war between floors.
Bloodshed from my fist,
Hole in the wall.

A mother in tears,
As her family falls apart.
A daughter, enraged,
Watching parents part.

A man,
Full of pain.
Missing his home.
Unwilling to leave,
The family that he brought here.

A war,
Between floors.
He said it,
“It’s like we are living in different nations.”
Oh father,
Can’t you see this is all of our creation?

This family,
Being torn apart.
Because we can’t put to rest,
A pureness of blood?

They preach of unconditional love.
I watch conditions,
Locations,
Tear them apart.

His brother died,
On that land.
And it’s like she killed him.

But it’s bullshit.
Just something else he can’t let go.

And my compassion,
Has been torn both ways.
So I’m infuriated,
And this is how I spend my days.

Watching them fall apart,
I hide in this room.
The hole in the wall,
A reminder of the monster I can become.
All over borders,
All over pride.

And that was the last she ever saw of him,
Great grandfather,
He didn’t become ill,
He was killed,
All over ink on the page,
Unacceptable,
So they put him in a cage.

And this cell is merely larger,
And the guards are in our heads.
The bars are all those things they can’t let go,
And so they sleep in separate beds.

And when I get home,
I put on that monster’s mask.
I told her,
“This isn’t who I am.”
“I know,” she said, “I know.”

And that mask,
It hangs at the door,
Measured to my height.
I walk through it.
Accustomed to it’s warmth.

Someone must have sewed it on,
As I slept.
That explains the pain,
Of those rare moments,
When I tear it off.

And how the pureness of my blood doesn’t matter,
When it hits the floor.
Mask in my hand,
Tears in my eyes.

This is who I am.
But I hide,
So I can relate to them,
Full of that Russian pride.