my mother, a lot more than i have

i think i should blame you more than i do, but it's hard to blame you,
because you weren't there.
i think i should blame you for the tears i spilt when you were mourning the loss of your first and only daughter,
because you made it so clear her blood was on my hands.
i think about those moments of weakness you have when presented with a captive audience, the locked-car-in-an-empty-parking lot speeches about how trapped you felt,
because he latched onto his own perception of the people in his life, and refused to see them in any other way.
i think when i was little all "adult reasons" could have meant was issues with money or love,
because both my parents were perfect, and that was that.
i think about you sitting on my feet as i hide beneath the covers, the broken down sobs just like nursery rhymes,
because you needed to sleep that night.
i think you only told them to me,
because these things aren't for boys.
i think about those moments so often despite the miscommunication and sore ankles,
because they're some of the only tactile proof i have that he hurts people.
i think he doesn't look like he hurts people,
because babies and animals love him, and so does everyone else.
i think my pain would not be heard in an unlocked room
because i've tried telling him and he doesn't listen.
i think i could blame you for not being there, if i tried, but it's hard to blame you,
because you already blame yourself.
it's really, really hard.

open the door