less is more. less to say is more to say. less to say to you is more to say to them.
it's another family problem.
it's another avoidance strategy.
it's another threat-and-challenge.
it's another defense put up when i thought it was okay to tear them down.
it's another thing to fuck with my head again.
i don't want to deal with this again.
i don't want to sleep to escape. again.
i don't want this to boil down to breakdowns and therapists.
but tales of mockery and insults and the way he doesn't know how to live on the outside,
the way he treats us all like inmates, the way we diagnose him on our own, the way we fight, the way we react.
the way i can't walk downstairs when i want for fear of being stopped.
the way i feel the grip of control at the nape of my neck and the lump in my throat called defiance, the way i can't stop it from shouting out my arguments, my final say, my heartbreaking last line.
"can't we just get along?"
"i don't want to get along with you."