Between Two Storms
Mom and Dad
I’d slip between them,
trying to decipher the language of their wounds,
hoping if I held their pain just right,
they might finally see the beauty in my existence —
the proof that something sacred still grew between them,
despite the ruins of their love.
Why couldn’t they find a rhythm,
a space where understanding lived?
Or, if the heavens were listening,
why couldn’t they make it work?
The weight of wanting love —
it was too much for a child to bear.
Too much for my becoming.
My soul grew weary,
smiling in one corner,
while trembling, unseen, in the closet of another.
I miss the freedom —
the lightness of not knowing,
of not carrying the tides of their emotions as my own.
Why did I care so deeply?
Why did I make it my burden
to weave peace between two storms?
Love was theirs to figure out,
to dig for, to bleed for,
to scrape from the bottom of whatever was left.
Sometimes, I wish I was not theirs.
Thank you for reading my blog!
