This one is dedicated to

The sons and daughters whose existence

Depends on three simple words:

Get.

Over.

It.

It being them, them causing grief,

Grief defined as the pain that holds a

Noose of thorns around the

Dancing pound of meat in your chest

Cavity, clawing through your mucilaginous insides, leaving

Scars that Neosporin can’t heal.

 

This one is for my mother,

Who, at the glance of my drowning face,

Sees the love she lost.

This one is for my father,

Who, holding his and my breath in his brittle rib cage,

Can only witness his son burning alive in the hungry

Flames of self-doubt.

 

This one is for you.

You, the single deep wound

That bleeds the words

Love

Hate

Miss

You

I.

Not in any specific order.

 

More importantly, this one is for me.

I know you won’t read this.

Even if you do, like Rhett Butler,

You won’t give a damn.

At least not today.

After all, tomorrow is

Another day.

This is for the hope of another day.