I can hear rain on the window pane.
I can hear my dog breathing rapidly in her dream.
I unloaded the dishwasher. Twice.
I cooked and cleaned. Breakfast lunch and dinner.
The kids showered. We played spoons. We watched a movie. There were cuddles. Everyone is tucked in.
But you want me to stay.
When it only hurts me.
And I say no.
You say I am white trash. You say I am crazy. You mock therapy. Call me a drunk. A mean drunk.
I will enjoy this glass of wine.
Thank you for letting me practice compassion.
I text a friend.
Am I mean when I drink?
Never, she says. Silly. Happy. Joyous.
I will leave. I will get away. I will be free.
But today, I cower. Under his raging face. Hoping the children sleep. Hoping.
I am safe.
Thank you for the practice.
And I breathe.