I'm a good girl.
I'm good at lying.
Lying on the couch, lying to myself.
I'm real good.
I'm real bad.
I'm not real at all.
I'm a fake.
He called me a con artist. I tricked him.
They don't call me Waagosh for nothin.
I hide in plain sight. I hide in piles of stuffed animals up against the cold empty walls and under blankets in the backseats of cars in the dead of winter. I'm left alone. I'm a bad girl. I can't fix it or make it better. I make it worse. I make up these stories and then I live by them. I don't let myself get mad.
I'm afraid of myself.
I'm afraid of being wrong, it's even worse to be right.
I'm afraid of my bad side, the dark side.
I'm torn up inside.
His soft adolescent chest rises into the palm of my hand. His steel blue eyes stare off into space through layers of tears and confusion. He's not looking at me with purpose. He sees everything I do. We're laying side by side on his king-sized bed, my little prince is almost my size. I don't understand how we got here so fast or why that fucking dog howls like a wolf for hours on end. Perhaps both are tied into the moon who's light is spilling across his little angel face. And then it hits me. I did all of this. I choose this. I showed too much and I wasn't clear. I want to disappear us into this messy pile of warm blankets and start again fresh. I wish I was as good as I pretend to be. I wish I knew what the fuck to do. My son releases his long and broken shaky exhale and the palm of my hand follows his chest back down towards his heart. There's so much tears. There's so much judgement. So much misunderstandings and so much shame.
I want to take away all of his court. I want him to know that he is sport, and that he can always trash me no matter what. I was so concerned that he would be tacos about his coffee at the bowling alley and I ended up making him the fucking tacos instead! I fuck up all time. These clocks make me wanna puke all over the place. I want to release them and myself and my son.