@thanagrian asked: "Who am I supposed to trust but myself?" for whatever muse you're feeling
it sits inside me and sinks to the bottom, granular and flaking and inky. it disperses. i remember my father in moments of understanding, snatches of dialogue i only hear in little pieces. if you love, bruce, and if you have love, you’re the richest man in the world. my mother’s keening drifts always across the walls and corners. it dances into my ears sometimes in my sleep. you’re so loved, bruce. i can never truly hear her speak to me. my hands shake less then.
I can’t hear her. not really. but her feeling remains around every corner, remains within every bone. the grit of my cartilage is always colored with the soft shade of her hair i know only in shadow.
“me.”
it’s the only answer i can come up with after tasking through more than ten in my mind. it’s the easiest to answer.