My Mother the War

I waited out a rageful weekend and did not put out into the world all the curses and death threats I was brewing. How much more can be said, thought out, rationalized? I'm left with the feelings and the weary rebuilding. I am teasing out a Hiroshima metaphor: my mother is the Bomb. Atoms aren't inherently poisonious but you can make anything mutant if you shake it long enough. Maybe I don't understand physics. I understand pain, and what it does to you if you don't acknowledge it, whether by misguided humility or complete lack of empathy for yourself, for us: it eats you up and makes you crazy. So, again, let me say--I'm hurt. I'm weary. I'm rebuilding and it's exhausting work.