Bad Wrong Things

by C.P. Harris

There was a time I believed maturity mended the imperceptible fractures of our hearts that couldn’t be physically touched or seen under a microscope. That I’d hit this magic age and poof, suddenly it would all make perfect fucking sense, and life wouldn’t hurt so bad. Then I looked at Clint, who was too afraid to ask the tough questions of the one remaining parent he had, and I analyzed his mother, who ran to a whole other country to avoid having to heal. And my mother, who chose to live in an alternate reality because facing the abused little girl inside her proved to be too risky. I examined it and concluded that no matter how old we got, we were still too young to have it all figured out. It scared and relieved the shit out of me. It gave little hope and, at the same time, released the pressure. I’d likely have a volcanic eruption one day, and so would Clint. Until then, we’d deal the best way we knew how with the tools we’d been given. I only prayed we’d eventually use those god-given shovels to dig our way out, not dig ourselves in deeper.