Misconception

i am an accident, 

the unpleasant residue of a one-night-stand 

between my mom and some nameless man 

after too much to drink in a bar.

The abortion scheduled,

i would be oblivion,

but for engine trouble and mom’s superstitious mind 

that took it for a sign from the spirits,

instead of the poor maintenance of a car.

As a child treated as a remainder,

a reminder of transgressions, an uninvited guest,

my mother’s husband said my middle name 

should be I Slipped. My mom told me,

before i was born, she prayed

for a capable child that 

would take care of itself.

Lately, every day, i’m haunted by my own misconception,

the air around me fighting to fill this space,

pushing in against the aberration of my skin,

crushing down on this incongruity,

the contradiction inherent 

in my even existing at all,

the only living ghost.