I Digress

I Digress

My son is nine, beautiful in the unconscious way only the young are. My son is creative and brilliant and clever and fierce; an unstoppable force of nature packaged in shorts and a tie dye shirt.

My son is nine, and voices live inside his head.

One is mean, and can speak with his mouth, the other can push a button to make him calm down.

They have names, these girls, these alien entities embedded in my son's psyche, they have names and personalities, individual characteristics and they Are. Not. Going. Away.

I always knew I would lose my son to another woman someday, I just never thought the woman would be inside his own head.

Sigh

I am drained from fighting these past few hours with my older son. Some of it is him, some of it is me, and all of it is exhausting day in day out until I cringe just walking through the door (brace for impact) wondering what fresh misery we get to inflict on one another.

He had long golden curls when he was two years old.

He has my mother's eyes.

He once rescued a lizard trapped in chicken wire.

I am both mother and father to him, and I wish I could do better, than this vitriolic reiteration, a dystopian relationship; nuclear fall out between mother and son.

January, 2017

I have to say it-

"you know if we do this, if we cross this line, there is no going back?"

Your lips against mine, inhaling my words-

"Yes, but there are rules that apply."

And then we are nothing more than frenzied mouths and hands, straining against one another. In this moment we are no longer anything but man and woman, I am the aggressor and you the unsure.

It was the only time I ever saw insecurity in your eyes.

It was frantic, driven, desperate, a desire so strong it was physically painful unstoppable inevitable, and once it happened there was no going back.

And you are a man of your word.

Um

I let it slip tonight, not even thinking, tumbling tripping off my tongue, sliding right past his awareness, and surprising even myself that I had just said it; and oh dear Lord someone light a candle

because I done caught feelings.

Walking Wounded

My sister tells me

"he is not like the others, and you know it"

But honey, it's triage, just straight triage. Get in, get out, with as few casualties as possible. I'm green tagged and limping, my lacerated heart carried on my sleeve, praying that the next hit won't shatter me for good.

I know this one