Your mother and I are separating.

My heart slinks to my toes.
It bleeds out through my pores,
squished between my toenails
by the words just propelled at my esophagus,
rendering me speechless.

You just kissed her,
How can you not love her?
She just hugged you,
How can she not hunger for your warmth still?

Of all the children and pubescent teens drained of a normal lifestyle,
I never deserved it.
It would never happen to me*,
**** my ignorance.
But I still don't deserve to watch Dad sleep in our family car for weeks.
I don't deserve to deliver his medication
through the driver's side window.
I don't deserve to comfort Mom
when the one needing comfort is myself.
I don't deserve to watch her change the locks on our doors.

OUR doors.

It's still your ******* door, Dad.
You own this couch, these dogs,
this marital bed.
Why can't you take ownership of your own family's door anymore?

Mom used to tell me
when one door closes another one open, so
Dad, why can't you just open that next door?