I sit in your shadow, one that has loomed over me my entire life.

You make it seem as if you have found the perfect path, but I see you take shortcuts when you think no one is looking.

“Good person” the label you wear like an outfit that is too tight. Like Cinderellas sisters you insist it is yours. Every flaw of you now accentuated by the ridiculousness of your vanity.

I want to learn the real lessons you have learned, instead you teach me ones you pretend to adhere to. I want to know the world’s secrets, yet you make them up to make your journey seem grander.

Where will this lead me? Do you understand the trap you have laid?

I walk into a dark wood hoping for salvation thinking it is my path alone to walk, yet I see your footprints here. Why did you say you’ve never been?

What moves in the darkness? I hurry, hoping to be free of this weight and find only more isolation. The sounds from behind the leaves make me anxious, yet I stand up straighter for it is what I have found in my isolation.

I face the darkness head on, confident in my own safety no matter what comes. Why then, do you stumble out of the dark accusing me of attacking you? I am not capable of violence, only self defense.

We spar in the dark for what seems like hours, silence your weapon and honesty mine. Do you not trust me? With my hand I ask for assistance, and with yours you smack it away.

Your anger is with yourself, you wish to fight the man you have become and yet you strike only me. It is not too late to find yourself, to become what you wish you were, yet you act as if what I have done is unforgivable.

I love you. Is that a crime?

You make it difficult, you speak to me as if I am still a child. I take no issue with advice, but you seem to state what I am doing as if it’s what you recommend. You point out things that are obvious as if I am blind.

I can see the fear in your eyes. You do not hide the psychosis you are going through well. Age comes for you like it will all of us, and I speak to your legacy whenever I can.

Termites are in your archives, your library falls into disrepair, what then of your life stories? You seem to tell me the same five repeatedly, but what about what happened in between? Dementia is stealing away from me the only connection I have to my ancestors.

I seek family, and I find pain. I seek acceptance and honesty and I receive deception and anger. I seek love and receive “ok”