I spend my days reading the internet, clicking one link to reach another that I'm beginning to lose track of the days in a week and the time. And if it weren't for my inability to tell you what day it was, I would be counting them down with near glee. I want it to be August so bad that I'm looking forward to when school starts. For August marks my getaway from home. I want to say that being home isn't all that bad but I find myself falling into that same old hateful role. Maybe I'm running away from my responsibilities, maybe I'm being incredibly selfish but I don't want to play mediator anymore or force myself to think that I'm the glue bottle for this family. Because I'm not. It's some sick motto that's become a mantra, chanted over and over in my head because I've yet to accept it. It's not my fault that things are the way they are but once here, once home, I see the catalyst for future spars. It's so redundant as well, that I'm tired of the arguments. Starving for a change, what will it take?
So I dream of August, a beautiful escape away from all this. And I can turn a deaf ear until I get that phone call complete with tears and pleas. For now, I've only blind eyes because I don't want to see him hiding his concern with unexplained demands. It's his subtle way of love, which she can't see because she wants something more concrete. In years to come, maybe she'll understand but the frustration of today blurs everything.
(Another day of the week)
No comments:
Post a Comment