He is screaming with frustration,
throwing objects like fits,
trying to contain his shrills but they
break through in shrieks
so I hold him.
He grumbles and growls wanting me
to leave. I just rub his back.
Slow circles; with my other arm
wrapped around him
like he is still a child.
I remind him to breathe
and tell him to try again tomorrow
and he huffs
but I can feel him releasing his anger
relaxing.
The tension in his body dissipating
until he is ready for me to
let go.
He picks up broken pieces
from the floor
tries to put them back together
the best he can  
I leave him to do this.
He never questioned my fear of the dark
when I would sneak away at night,
he eagerly awaited to hear my stories
and would hug me
no matter how hard I pushed him
away.
This is a love that can withstand
fights for the mirror
battles over school.
He is ever changing,
becoming someone new everyday
but when I hold him
he is still five
and braver than I.
He is stronger and kinder.
When I was his age
he could not understand
why I would cry in the other room
and bite at the ankles of anyone
who dared to step too close.
But I understand him.
The anger that lingers beneath skin
always ready to consume
and dominate.
This household is like
a pack of matches  
once he ignites he is forgotten
because we all burn up and out
without listening to his pain.
I remember that feeling,
it never fully goes away.
It is not something we speak of
but something we feel
and when he needs me to hold him
I will never be too far.
He has my ears,
my arms,
and always
my heart.