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He doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t mean to…. he’s a feral dog frantic for a bone. A clumsy giant crashing through a china shop. He’s Edward Scissorhands. And his scissor hands cut and slice through skin, through trust, through promises, through hope. He’s moving me out of the way, playing hide and seek and drawing blood.

He’s seeking and finding drugs, too many drugs. Then…

He finds his way into treatment. He finds his way out within 8 hours.

And so I do what I am told.

I hold my bottom line, not him.

And I am torn. Miosis. Mitosis. Whatever. I am split apart, by the pulls of nature. Or nurture.

Please God help us.

Help him stay alive another hour, another night… help his brain not seize or pop or leak or asphyxiate. Please help his heart survive and not stop beating….

He is balancing on the razor’s edge between life and death.

And please God, help me stay away.


THAT is an impossible prayer. My child is dying and please help me stay away??

Is this opposite day?

If it’s opposite day, that means it’s not opposite day.

Who am I?

Protector? Punisher? Both as one?

Upside down the world is upside down. My insides are on the outside.

I love you, son.

You are lonely. You are scared. You are somewhere out there and so I text I love you. As if my love is a soaring blanket that will find you, envelop you, and save your life. But in truth, there’s nothing but empty space between us. I could be on the moon.

Did you get my text? Do you know you are my earth, moon and stars? Is that too much? Too little? I don my straight-jacket. I don’t move from my seat on the couch. If I don’t move maybe you won’t die. If I don’t breathe, maybe God will take me instead.

The doctors said if your disease was cancer, it would be stage 4. And here I sit in a straight-jacket because…. WHY? Because I’m supposed to do this so you feel the pain, loss, consequences of your drug abuse. I stay away because you are so sick? Because you have a stage 4 disease? There must be another way. Please someone figure out another way.

This waiting for signs of life contains every eviscerating opposite that exists in the universe.

It is the sharp blade of your scissor hands slicing my heart into two.

And then you call. After 4 days you call. Proof of life. Proof of something.

I need help, you say; I’m going to make a plan.

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