Late in the afternoon, I played through the pain.
A molto allegro Mozart aria, the accompaniment.
Suddenly, I felt a break. My grandpa
called mom a bitch. I always thought
it was my fault, though; me and my stupid Nautica
bathing suit. Physical therapy, neurologists;
all this frustration pent up so long,
it hurt so bad. I’ve always eaten apples
meticulously, and chomp off the stem and flower,
like my grandpa. I feel guilty. There’s
no reason why I shouldn’t be frustrated,
mad at the world, and myself. He hated it,
the bathing suit, so I thought the fight
started because of me.
I hear more stories of my grandparents now:
how awful they were. Sometimes I wake up hurting:
a new variation of repeated pain.