What I do with my kids, my husband, my hair– are all my own choices.
Any correlation to you exist in your mind, quietly whispered by your inner voices.
Perhaps you should reschedule a visit with your therapist, and no– that’s NOT ME.
I am busy over here, and you lack reciprocity.
The time you spent dissecting the No Good Horrible Thing, and related as such?
More energy of yours wasted, and when you were already lacking so much.
Consider for a moment that you are wrong about this, too;
that the No Good Horrible Thing exists separate from you.
It’s a shock, I know– I’ll give you a moment–
though I’d go to Vegas and take the odds on you owning it.
The assumptions of my motives that you laid at my door?
Simply the reflection of your own failure to be more.
My purpose? My goal? It’s not grandiloquent self-inflation;
but rather to make myself– and my family– happy, through habit adaptation.
Perhaps, and again, I think the therapist would agree,
that you are putting way too much stock in any scribbles from me.
To assume that I have enough brain space to analyze, and then type out all that you lack?
Good gracious, please take two or three very large steps back.
I don’t care what you think; about me, about mine.
You don’t like me? Follow my finger– to the back of the line.
Certainly these things were not because of YOU, in case you needed me to be clearer.
I’m too busy try to figure out ME, to add worry about your brand of paranoid fear.
I have my own faults– the lacking of patience, a quick-temper, and sharp-tongue;
distractibility, and the daunting responsibility of raising my young.
I struggle every day to mellow my own anger, to seek out new joys,
in order to make good men out of each one of these boys.
You can see now, I’m certain how little down time is left in my day…
and then you come calling, like the Mary Kay of Dismay.
I switched out for ladies who can support and lift up,
without first brewing a batch of Bitch Tea by the cup.
Dude really, you give yourself far too much credit.
But I like closure, so here–let me end it.
I think about you maybe once in a day. How I’d love to sit down and just vomit all I have to say.
Both the things that are nice, and the things that are not– I wish it sometimes, I wish it a lot.