An old man lays in his bed
unassuaged.
His memories go in and out
like an ebb and flow of sanity;
Some real, some not.
He thinks about his children.
More specifically,
the small
blonde
boy.

The one who grew close to him despite constant resistance.

The one who admired him despite his constant mistakes.

The one who, as he grew older, still cared for his favored stepfather.

The one who’s mother he bashed and hit and shoved and kicked.

The one he whipped with a slashing leather belt -
Back when he felt no remorse.

He shakes his head to rid the thoughts.
Such things should not be forgotten, but not
dwelled upon.

With so much thinking, he grows tired.
His dulled eyes close as he intends to
arise in the morning. But his last
thought is:

Maybe it’s ok if I don’t wake up.