secrets.

you

holding up your magnifying glass

as you enlarge the contents of your phone screen.

eyes squinted

with interest.

this must be so much effort,

considering the pains you complained

about technology complexities,

so you drop it at our feet

to manage your business.

what must it be then,

to hold such honour

to have captured your attention,

tamed your intolerance.

you shuffled,

as I passed,

so naturally,

as if I cannot infer meanings from actions.

you tuck your phone away,

locked the screen,

so naturally,

and put your head onto the pillow,

as if I must better focus on your fatigue

from work

to which I must be grateful,

to blind myself from the doubts you have provoked.

maybe I am over-thinking,

but why are you dropping hints

in your covert nature?

so what if you are sweet-talking to another woman?

so what if your begging sincerity previously

was rooted in fear of separation?

so what if you’ll deny?

so what if you are going to fake medical claims to gain underserving pity?

so what if you continue painting a father figure of yourself publicly?

now this reminds me of the book I’m reading about abuse.

abusers know innately the fault of their actions,

so they continuously justify it,

till they become so used to their own fabricated reality,

it becomes their truth.

now you are not an abuser.

I am not abused.

but maybe you have also created your own reality,

convincing yourself it is authentic.

this reality has only you in it,

plagued by loneliness and exclusion.

you deserve attention,

you deserve to socialise.

you deserve it all.

I cannot even look you in the eye,

without feeling awkward,

small,

judged,

guilty from being unable to respect you.

If you be gone,

I think I’ll be alright.

I know you’re trying,

mummy says you are improving.

maybe I should be patient,

because its hard to change old habits.

I’ll eat well the meals you have brought home,

because I am thankful for that.

But is this the only way

you can manifest

even if its just obligations,

in a bowl

a packet,

or words to watch the cars when crossing words,

or words that ask if I did well in school,

so that the only convenient answer I should give is yes,

or hands that grabbed my wrist

like a child

mirroring the distance all these years have created

that in your reality,

you are stuck in reverse,

trying to fill the desire when I was just a child,

easy to love.

yet, you still want a third child.

what are children to you?

an ownership? an ego-alleviating tool? an symbol of respectable stability? of a good life?

I am 16 this year, and I have my thoughts.

for God’s sake, I am not 5 years old.

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