In the city of broken hearts, I watched an aircraft rise up, up, and toward the clouds. The clouds were heavy and gray, pregnant with rain. My heart was shattering, and I clenched my teeth as tears silently rolled down my cheeks. I can relate to that aircraft. I feel like I have risen above where I thought I would go, but now, I am headed toward disaster, waiting for a storm to befall me.
As soon as I got home, I collapsed on my bed, weak, sad beyond measure, and frustrated. Sobs caused me to tremble and shake, and shortly after, he crawled onto the bed beside me and held me, stroking my hair until I could speak.
This is supposed to be about us. This is supposed to be beautiful. Colors like coral and Caribbean blue and khaki are supposed to dance through my mind. Flowers and materials like lace or satin are supposed to be on my mind.
I am supposed to be elated, celebrating, instead, I am dragged down a select history of my failures. An avenue cobbled in my sins and mistakes, my poor choices and wrongdoings.
I will never be enough. I will never be good enough. I am so sad, so angry, and above all, so damn tired of trying so hard. I thought a mother’s love was supposed to be unconditional, not based on a prescribed list of conditions I will never fulfill.