I have only spent
Thousands of hours
Processing my feelings
About this “family” relationship
And devoted years of taking you to therapy
In the hopes of healing it
And written tens of letters to you
in the hopes of reconciling and finding peace
Despite all the odds
I have only hit the depths of despair
And been in danger of
Putting a gun to my head
Because of the turmoil you created
And yet people look at me
And point a finger
And call me the bad one
The loud one the combative one
Because at the end of the day
I put my self-preservation first
Oh how we all love a tragedy
Where someone dies from despair
Then nobody around has to deal with
All the darkness
That I hold up to the light
As I cry out
“This is not mine. Here you take it”
You prefer quiet desperation
The internal unraveling
Of the woman behind closed doors
A suicide a homicide
It’s self contained and tidy
One isolated incident
Instead of something that makes you think
The chain reaction
Of consequences for distorted thinking
And social complacency

©2015 by Loolwa Khazzoom. All rights reserved. No portion of this article may be copied without author’s permission.