You’re talking to me.
At least your voice in the background makes it seem that way.
You’re probably making valid points about perspective,
attempting to help me grieve while my period eats away at my emotions,
or trying to make me feel better about being broke “because it’s temporary.”
You never fail to mention that the pockets of the wealthiest people
cannot stop their own crises from taking place.
Maybe you should stop.
Maybe you should let me be;
because what you’re telling me,
I already know,
and it will only worsen my mood.
I’m sorry that you’re spending your 60th birthday
misty-eyed,
having yet another conversation with your daughter
about how to overcome her woes.
You tell me a couple of scriptures I can’t adequately recall
before going back to your book.
Moments later I’ve made myself more aware,
only because the speech doesn’t seem like it’ll reconvene.
Part of me is relieved that you’re focused on news updates,
and it doesn’t take long before your routine complaints about Trump begin.
This is it:
Just us.
It usually is.
Me, suctioned into my warped little world, consumed by my hunger for success.
You, hurting beyond any type of explanation or comprehension,
carrying on as if today isn’t especially yours.
I’m sorry.
written September 15, 2016.