Feed the Muse: Inner Monologues (Vol. I) [√]

[ ocean tides & parental absence ]

Whenever you try and talk to me, I put up a wall between us so that your words won't echo through the self-assurance I have cultivated. I'm okay. I'm doing great. I keep repeating these words on a loop, a string of armor wrapping itself around the mindset of being enough, pouring its contents onto the charity case of what I would call my hopes. I no longer want to listen to you complain about how cruel the world is; I'm not fragile, never have been fragile. You must have forgotten how I stood up to be a parent when your son decided to limp away from his responsibilities, leaving a drought of worry and unease upon the shoulders of my mother, the devastating reality of losing someone whom you once thought was going to fight for you. I took over the reins, became the soldier my father should have been. I was never a coward. I was always brave. Your silly assumptions and religious beliefs should be buried alongside your goody-two-shoes attitude; you were never that angelic. I aspire to be free from your clutches, from the prison of suffocation and family ties you seem to happily throw around whenever you walk into our home unwelcomed. No one likes you here. Your presence only brings misery, your frustrations an evident cloud hanging above your head, your bitterness an ocean of angst that threatens to pull us under. I'm a hurricane. I'm stronger than your currents.