Tipping Point

The pressure builds over time.
A whine here
A death there
Demands for
parts of me everywhere.
There is no relief.
I am certain to break
into a million pieces.

Accepting help

seems more
work than it is worth
because first,
I have to admit
I can’t handle it all.
Following the acknowledgment that
I am not omnipotent,
the help must be evaluated.
How much will this really cost me?
Familial help is often the most
expensive, followed by lovers,
usually.
Not always though.

The anger rises.

Tracing back,
I am usually
at the root of it,
but this is hard to stomach,
so I will swallow it,
deflect it,
dive into a project,
or hit the batting cages.
I used to pick fights, but
I am too powerful
and inflicted too much harm
so I don’t anymore.

People say they understand,

but I don’t believe them.
Pets are not kids.
Part time kids are not full time kids.
Hobby jobs are not
full time single-income jobs.
Parenting children is not
parenting grieving children.
I smile and thank them for their
compassion when I really
just want to scream.

Some days,

I want to run away.
Go into hiding.
Buy a burner phone
and not give the number
to anyone.
I want to wrap an expensive silk scarf
around my hair,
wear oversized sunglasses,
rent a steel-grey convertible,
and drive too fast for hours,
pretending not to be me.

I want to end the day’s driving

at a far away destination
where no one knows me,
clean up, dress up,
get picked up,
and have a fling.
Or maybe just take a nap.

But here’s the thing,

In time,
in a week or a day or an hour,
I’d want to come home.
I’d want to come home
to my kids, my dogs, cats, and chickens,
to my friends, family, and neighbors,
to my piles of laundry,
my empty refrigerator that needs to be filled,
my house needing to be cleaned,
and the endless demands on me
because even though there are moments
when I reach the tipping point
and I want to burn my life down,
I love it.

~ Mk Michaels, 2014