The mention of you used to make my eyes water and my stomach do back flips.
I pretended that your name didn't bother me, and my memories of the nights I spent with my feet pounding on asphalt and not safe in my bed, weren't there.
I pretended that the dreams of piercing screams and puffy eyes didn't wake me up because I was sobbing in my sleep.
That the images of you with a fist raised at mom scarred into my mind by that 7 year old me, with watery eyes and a hoarse throat, didn't burn inside my chest.
When they mention you now, it brings but a sharp pain and a dull ache. And Sympathy. Sympathy for the way you build yourself fast, and then tear yourself down faster. Empathy for the family that destroyed itself by loving you and trying to fix you without your help.
When they mention you now, I see you. Deep underwater in the vast ocean. Sick with self-destruction and guilt. With a weight tied to your ankle and bottle in your hand you can't breathe, but neither can I and you're blaming the sun the moon and the stars but dad, don't you remember? With one hand tight on that bottle, you tied the weight.