Short and sweet and bitter

Throughout my fits and fluctuations,
He remains the same.
My troubles and my trepidations,
He remains the same.
My shattering shouts and binging bouts,
Still, he is the same.
My verbal abuse, the words I misuse,
No budge, still the same.

--

Inhale.
Holding a flame to my fuse
I refuse to take part in the cycle
Bottle it in, slap on a fake grin,
Don't fall into the spiral.
Exhale.
I've done it again, here I am.
Haranguing away, abuse in way,
Silence, inaction fueling my say.
Contritions expected.
The fire, resurrected.
Soon burns away, soon returns to stay.

Unknown Maturity

The more I dwell, the more I find how sweeping maturity is.

It’s not attached to a specific age. I’ve witnessed my at-the-time 9-year-old, spry, silly, distant cousin embody more maturity in her words and actions than my mother. One’s subconsciously exhibiting rare forms of maturity. The other, my mother, is choosing to abandon her filter. She damn well knows she’s speaking out of line. And yet, I find maturity in that silent admittance to immaturity.

It’s forever fluctuating, evolving, moving like an in-between state of matter. It’s not quite liquid, not quite solid. It’s malleable—very malleable. Kind of makes me think of the goo I wanted for Christmas a decade ago. My mom’s goo was much more sophisticated back when I was too young to know the difference. Now, that goo has reached diva status. (I envision pink sparkly goo with a fabulous sun hat.)

I blame pecuniary issues that most Americans would love to have.

It cannot be defined in a single sentence. And if it is, that sentence is a total run on. Like, marathon worthy.

It cannot be defined in a single blog post, by a single person, at a single moment in time. Sometimes I think it’s as unknown as space, but maybe I’m just a novice.