Each year I find myself on their anniversary and I can’t tell them I’m the man they raised me to be. I can’t tell them all of the people responsible have been dealt with either. I haven’t excelled at my job. I have virtually no friends and I’ve lied to those that try to get close to me. More than anything, I fear I’ve closed myself off to love. Part of me wonders if I’d set the bar too high and that part wonders if a love like theirs was the exception, not the rule. Brushing the leaves aside, I trace their names, wishing I had been the son they expected me to be. Venessa and Macy have dealt with unspeakable horrors, yet they have found happiness, but my thoughts are focused on a woman more fucked up than I am. Maybe it was time to put childish things aside and just settle for a woman who can tolerate me. I don’t have much to offer a woman emotionally, I know that. I lack a sense of humor because when I lost my parents, I lost my reason to laugh.
