the good the bad and the ugly

the good is all in my boy. his flawless soul, fair skin, oceans for eyes, hair the tone of autumn leaves. his toothy smile. his hearty giggle. he’s pure to the bone, not a malicious one in his body. he’s dutiful even in the face of bitter pills morning, noon and night. he knows no want beyond hugging, eating, sleeping, venturing outside—weather permitting—then going back home and taking a bath. he is not greedy or mean or power-hungry or spiteful or racist or bigoted or hateful. his world is, at once, small and boundless. he is only good. good. good.

the bad is just that. a nightmare. the seizures. the years that pass as if decades. the fatigue, the sleep deprivation, the worry, the drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs. the side effects. the irritability. the relentlessness. the tension. the lack of resolve. everywhere i look there is a problem without an answer like a month without sun, a thirst without water.

the ugly i feel is inside me. it spews out in red and white-hot flashes, stitches my brow such that its creases and folds feel coarse and immalleable like scars. my shoulders draw into my neck like they do in the cold of winter. this ten-year winter is forever and i’m brittle and hardened. its ugliness my pathetic impatience, my harsh language, my unforgiving white-knuckle grasp.

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