It's hereditary, I think.
Holding on.
My dad clings to
objects and hobbies
spread across two hundred
acres and six barns and
endless, rolling fields.
My mom holds on to me.
When I came out she
smiled, told me,
"you can't get rid of us"
Regardless of who I was.
We tease him about
getting rid of things
clearing off work benches
but he just shrugs
and the bench stays the same.
When I told her I wasn't
sure I wanted to get better
that I wanted to give up,
she turned to me, firm
"I'll drag you out of this
if I have to."
He holds onto
consistency, same
clothes, same jobs,
same home and bench.
He loves so deeply what he has.
And days
after, she stood in my door,
crying, and she clung
to my shoulders and
said "I can't lose you".
And my dad clings
to us. He checks in
every day, offers food
and more hobbies to
clutter my room like his.
She held on as if
she could keep me here
by will and strength alone
by just the power of
her arms and tears.
He holds on in his
own way. He
cares, I think, so hard it
hurts. And his workbench
stays cluttered.
As if her grip could
tear me from my hole
from the squalid place
I've come to call home.
Could drag me back to her.
It's hereditary, I think.
Holding on.
I collect like my dad
fill my space with
pens and books and
pets and plants
everything I love.
But I haven't
clung to what I love
like my mom does.
I don't fight, or hold on, I just
let it slip through my fingers.
