The strength in which you created to bare us,
became the strength in which you need to bare us.
No book could've prepared you
for the disappointments,
the nights we don't come home,
for a hysterical rush of tears,
bullets straight into your shoulder.
Torn apart in ways more than one,
you never even saw it coming.
We are your blind spots;
the cause of constant and unspoken worry.
No longer possessing innocence,
but still demanding your blind trust.
We're sorry we never call,
and for growing up too fast.
But I promise, we're okay,
and you've done a perfect job.

I think I finally understand why you'll always love us.