I’ve got a strained heart and a heavy head. My eyeballs have been drained into one screen followed by another. The thought of getting up and moving has me wanting to die.
I don’t care if you’re mad with me. I just want you to shut up and listen. I am the adult here. I am the parent. My new haircut, with the shaved face, has me looking like my father. I have assumed the mantle.
I will slap you for looking at me the wrong way. I will throw you down into your bassinet. I will only be causing more problems for myself in the long run, but you’ve pushed me to this point. You’ve brought it on yourself. They say that you’re too young to regulate your crying. They say that only the mothers can get post-partum depression. They don’t understand how much of an empath I am. I will take your emotions and harness them within myself, sometimes going further into them than you, sometimes being weaker than you to the point where your emotion crushes me and those around me.
Having defeated you, I deliver you to your mom, saying, we don’t have to worry about this little bitch anymore; the damage is done. Leave it to the dads to do the heavy lifting. Leave it to the men to chase you through the hedges, lighting the shining at an even earlier age than my predecessors, opening the door to a world of pain coming my way the deeper down the devil’s leg we climb, my mother in my wife’s eye, my god, it was terrible.