remembering the pain of years spent
picking up and sorting through their mess.
we promised we'd never be like them.
but it's late.
and it's more complicated than we could've imagined.
disregaurding our parents fumbles by
not viewing them as warning signs.
allowing the bruises to be covered with burns.
the tension is high; comforting.
this household, charachterized by the harsh words, hateful tones,
hurts we inflicted, and pain we've aquired.
and somedays, if not everyday
we try and muster up the strength to pray,
Pray that the love that once was.
is still enough.
that we are different.
but i don't know anymore.