Mr. Smith says I do my best when I’m not over-thinking things. When I don’t hesitate between my tongue and the envelope, dye everyone’s faults yellow, inkwash my feet cold.
I am seventeen years of mess and bones and I am sorry. I am my mother’s insecurities and mania passed on like an explosive heirloom, a time bomb, a wristwatch, an hourglass. Something glass- I am my father when I get angry. I’m sorry that I’ve been so angry. That lately there’s been so much to try to condense into one small body. I’m sorry that I have too small of a body to hold all of me inside of it, let alone all of you, and all of her, and all of the people that have walked through me before both of you. I’m sorry that I try anyway and I’m sorry that it unravels me sometimes.
I’m sorry that the sun keeps coming out every morning and that sometimes the light hurts you. Because I know how it feels when the universe hasn’t let you catch up to its planets and their orbits and all of these gusts of wind and I’m sorry that you feel wind-gusted behind the sun in the first place. I’m sorry that there are days when I vacillate wildly between wanting to nail you down so the breeze won’t blow you over and pushing you further into a current, forcing you to swim. I realize now that I am struggling to walk through air too. I realize that some days I am also barely floating. That you are my waterwings as much as I am your parachute.