Visine

It’s wearying, to want something for somebody else.
It wears hard on you as years go by,
As noses drip and ink splotches on the archival paper
That scissors rock.
When you say: “I want what’s best for my kids!”
Be sure to know you will be run into the ground
By the weight of the lives you are pulling.
Because you are not pulling in tandem.
When you have a baby:
Do you know who you just had?
Did you look into this?
How well do you know this person, to enter a committed relationship with her?
If you married someone like this, this blind, you would be certified insane.
Hard it is to be a good person just alone, just the one of you, to make just one person good from within;
A-hundred-fold hard to be someone else a good person,from without,
Arrange someone else day-by-day-by-day for thirty years into waking up, eating healthy, speaking a second language,
Doing homework, picking up clothes off the floor,
Not sleeping with their best friend’s boyfriend,
Not being a dick to schoolmates,
Not stealing from your wallet and sweetly saying “I’m sorry mom” and stealing from your wallet and saying ‘I’m sorry mom” and stealing from your wallet and saying “I’m sorry mom, hey it’s three past midnight and I’m stranded here, would you give me a ride?” sweetly,
Not being a fucking teenage psycho,
Not being a fucking psycho all their lives like their dad.
You will not be able to take a breath in ease.
And then if and when they finally start being polite with you,
If and when you start being polite with them,
It means you are being reclassified as strangers:
a relief and a death.
And then you will get sick and be sick for a long time.
Then you will die.
Then oceans will rise and swallow them forty years from now.
Congratulations.
Remember the rude midwife in the birthing room in Russia?
“You knew how to fuck, now know how to be in pain, whore?”
She was right.
Fucked, in pain, Anne Geddes babies in their cabbage hats a lie,
Your tears of lye, and lies, and Visine,
And visitation rooms in prison.
The mother next to you weeps over the Formica table:
Her child will not walk with God.
Her child will walk into eternal flames.
Her child is a muddy Polaroid.
Her child a is one-year-old dressed as a bee for Halloween.
Her child abuses opioids.
Her child has sewn herself a penis out of a sow’s ear.
Her heart is ripped.

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