I am trying to find a balance.
With him, for him,
for respite of darkness,
where he was dragged and tethered
and my hands mostly fail to recover him.
This child is so young- too young for his temper.
I wore grimly tired as he raged,
and finally smacked me on Christmas Day.
That day, I listened to his father’s hateful language
before the phrase that burnt
the back of my tongue nearly dissolved him
with a single glance.
How am I still afraid?
I have papers, a lawyer, a prosecution,
and finally, a leg to stand on…
So why do I still shiver at the sight?
Our son is quickly following the example.
He is scaring the color from my skin
when he goes for the proverbial jugular
after an overtired mishap with a toothbrush
and an inflated sense of entitlement…
Yet, everyone says he looks like me.
We carry the weight of his father on our backs,
and I can’t help but to think that this is why.
We need a hand, sometimes.
He needs help understanding that violence is hate
and that hate will destroy the heart in time.
All I can do is love him from every angle
to replace the hurt he’s been given.
I don’t know how to give him more,
or how else to purge the war from his tiny frame.
I gave him everything he knows,
even the boundaries he should never cross.
But he is crossing…
and I fear for his return.
Return in my likeness.
©2012 Jessica Stephenson All Rights Reserved