My mom carries pain like I do, but the difference is, she doesn’t talk about it. Until she’s drunk. Which means about 7pm,like clockwork.
After enough repetitions,you realize you’re not talking to a person, you’re talking to a cycle.
And we’ve gone through it.
I point out that she’s making a conscious choice to sit in that cycle. And if a human wants to drink it to death at the last ten yards?
Who the fuck am I?
Who the fuck am I to tell anyone what’s right or wrong?
Even if I be knowing. Even if I see that a person is still carrying shit from when they were a little girl.
Poison.
Seeps into the DNA. Poisons your children. Makes you seek out emotional transactions so you can subconsciously repeat them.
You’re tied to an invisible stone.and the word “death” is chiseled on that mother fucker.
It sticks out from a timeline.
Demons watch in fascination,over multiple lifetimes, some highlander shit. Maybe some spiritual warfare shit.
Or just weak blood.
I have to let her die. And I have to remember this because it’s very likely that I’ll do the same thing. I do a smaller version of it already.
Meh, hard shit. Heartbreak.
I’ll talk about it though, she won’t. My odds are better than hers because of that act.
What the fuck do I know?
I have to go to work.
dawn 