Don’t be it, don’t be the child to make me mother
don’t feel the grief in me requires parental consent
these be the affordability of you that tells me I need something more.
When did tears become something to fear?
Like streaks of black across the colour of your day,
an affront, a dis-perception
of how you want me to see the world right now,
But god damn it these are the frames I have been given,
the focus choose,
the view askew that just is,
and as much as I wish my vision blurry
do not deny me my eyes.