Getting those parts of you out of me is like pulling the top of a weed, it's sticky roots still stuck inside
I never wanted to be angry, never wanted to hold the rage you boasted about from your youth
I never knew that what I observed would take a hold in me, sub consciously, like underground currents
That in moments of extreme pressure, I would crumble, just like you did, over and over again
In some ways, it makes sense
You can't build a foundation on sand, and when your house is made of glass, it will always shatter
So now I dig down below, beneath the poisoned roots
I scoop these buckets of sand out, one at a time, with a little bit tumbling back down to the bottom every time it hits the top of the pile
I will persist though
I refuse to accept that I must plant these noxious weeds in my own heart, in my own family
I will build my own house, on solid ground, and the currents will move on by like they were supposed to
