My eyes flicker across the comment, reading it over, and over, and over again.
Every time I read it, my heart fills with rage, and my eyes cannot tear away.
I cannot believe my son would ever say that to a woman. The son I carried for nine months, the son I tore my soul apart for, the son I destroyed my body for, the son I neglected my life for.
Each word cuts through me, sharp as the blade of truth, carving wounds deeper than I've ever known. In the quiet rage of my mind, I feel torn with the guilt of a split fig, and the burning in my heart is heavy, sorrowful yet angry.
How could he?
My son?
My son.
My son, said this to every woman, disregarding his sister, mother, aunt, and everyone who raised him. My son, who looked upon the body that fed him, the arms that cradled him, the woman who held him as he breathed his first breath—and cast them aside, as if they were nothing but shadows.
I sit in the agony of my anger and guilt, feeling the sharp sting of failure. I wonder if, somewhere along the way, I had somehow failed to protect him from his father's darkness—or if that darkness had always been hiding in him, waiting for this very moment to unravel itself.
I didn't want to believe it. But when he came home that night, he wore his father's face, his father's eyes, his father's voice. He was the perfectly imperfect embodiment of his father. And in that moment, the man I loved, the man I feared came back to life in my son.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts for the Eye
PoetryThoughts I wrote down, maybe they'll give you some comfort? "But I feel something deeper. Beneath the fear, there is a fire inside of me, one I cannot extinguish. It burns with the pain and the rage of all the women who came before me. " PS. If...
