when you crave space:

when you despise them for that jam on your sofa; for pissing  in your shoes; for muddling white with pink; for that toilet’s dreadful stink; 

when you ache with spite about all you gave

to save your kids distress; when you hate them and the mess they insist’s an effect of your mistakes, your own misguided self, bereft, 

and now’s just evidence that how they live’s bequeathed; 

when you ask, ‘could you put that flask in that part of the kit your grandpa’s craft  made to hold it safe?’ and they prove yesterday’s claim’s got much more to lose than an artefact’s  power to move

memory used disproportionately, 


when you crave space, 

watch me – grieve, regret, beget space, and crave still yet know, it’s not space you crave  and you, simply, can’t know.

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