The brittle gravity scrapes against your knees as you are down once again on the floor of your bathroom with a stain of coffee around your lips and gasping for air like basketball doesn’t make the wet stop from dribbling down your chin, landing on the floor and like rain-make puddles that only grow. To seep into the wet of the inability to deal with what is outside of this room. You want to write happy and you know you can but you’re kneeling into the gutters of zero capacity to handle. You want to surrender but you want to make your son an adult you’d be proud of. It’s easier in the moment to let 15 minutes happen, then 20 and one hour and then it is never enough and you know that by giving one more inch on the string, it’ll mean 3 isn’t enough in 2 days. It’s numbers, and psych and the patience and the startling ice burg slams into you hard as the air comes into your lungs like silk on a magic carpet but oh how devastating but how smart to feel and to know and maybe how painful because it isn’t easy to put it out there but it makes sense that, that, that I do not want to birth more people on this planet if I handle them, the way that I have with the only child I have. I am disturbed, and hurt and broken on the daily with how inadequate I am for this portion of raising a human being. It scares me and alerts me and I do not have a grip on it and I am so drained trying to be understood and how difficult it is to maintain a civility. When you can’t break down a wall, how many times do you crash your head, your heart, upon it? I wish I didn’t care sometimes. Some people can do it so well. To let the screen times roll. To let the junk food and the attitude and the baskets of disrespect be thrown. That would be the easier way, wouldn’t it? Holy fikster.