It Hurts Too Much. This is Just One Big Trigger. I Have to Release This But You Don’t Have to Read It.

nothing has changed. i’m still an angsty teenager with too much eye makeup. when i have too much feels, i write a song. i never remember the tune that i wrote after the first time of cry-singing it in my car, so now it’s a poem. 

i’m internalizing terribly over this horrendous news story and i just have to get it out of my system before i can move on. i’d like to say it’s an honorable pursuit and i’m cherishing the memory of this poor tortured little soul or something, but really, there’s just all this blood rushing through my head and all i hear is the thick urgent adrenaline of my own kid in pain.
you may have read the story. i’m not going to repeat it. you don’t need your own vivid misery. i’ll just say this 3 year old boy was tortured and died, at the hands of his mom and other adults. he had a familiar round face and hair that hung in his eyes and a complexion like my henry’s.  i’m near tears and vomit all the time and just keep picturing henry’s parts in that kind of pain.  what he must have cried out or begged or sobbed in a voice like my baby’s…i just…can’t anymore. 

it’s not saving him for me to fall into this pit. i can’t be less of a mom to my kids because i’m lost in this grief spin. i’m going to leave him in heaven where i want him to be. with Jesus holding his crushed body so tenderly and kissing and crying over each wound on his tiny body and soul. that’s it. 

here’s my poem. moving on. have to. 

I want to hold you, keep you safe in my arms. 
Keep all the parts of you safe from harm. 
I feel like building a series of walls against the world to keep you whole. 
But I worry that you’d miss out on the chance to build your strength. 
To find your feet, find your voice, figure out who you are among us. 
You can’t do that alone behind a wall. 
I’m sorry if sometimes I kiss you and hug you too much. 
Sometimes those kisses are aimed at another small person in pain who I couldn’t reach. 
One who I wish I could hold and make well and tell them they’re loved and important.
Not a hassle, a mistake, or something to hate. 
But I can’t because they’re gone now or halfway around the world. 
So many small ghosts out there it kills me. 
Too many little lives too full of pain. 
Every mouthful of new teeth should be smiling and throwing giggles 
up into the air all the time, like you do. 
Thank you for doing that. 
It heals my breaking heart. 
I want to tell you earnestly that I think that people are good. 
And that you should genuinely smile and be kind and caring 
and to expect it back from others.
I just don’t know. 
I hope I’m not lying. 
I want you to trust me. 
But I’m not sure on that point. 

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