These Burdens

I poured hot stew on my hand. I tied the hair you pulled from your scalp into knots. I tasted the week-old vase water and found pieces of my favorite puzzle in the trash with spaghetti sauce.

Last night, I called mother. My heart raced before she spoke. He’s gone. She said this so softly like the birds she loves. They hide in trees. We hide in rooms. I apologized. A part of me, unsure.

It’s a lesson I’ve learned too late in life. That every second takes something from me. But who do I tell? I calm others to feel protected. If I cry, I can’t stop. If I smile, I’ve still lost.

I run back to you. The hamster on the wheel. There is no solution. I’m safe in this bubble of unsafety. I have the courage to spiral and pollute my mind. But I don’t have the courage to be honest with you.

I’m suffering. I’m exhausted. My joints are stiff. Tonight, I cursed him. I blame you for burdens you implanted. I didn’t have a say. But I am you. I am father. I am who they will one day become.

I’ve been grateful. …