I would walk in the door and it would begin to drift: a universal criticism, gently sieving its load, soft, building soft on soft.
Not noticing the oppression, drifting slowly, layering; soft on soft. But, at time to go, to leave the world of the parents, I would stagger to the door, weighed down by the soft and never-ending negativity of you-could-haves, you-should-haves and oh-dears.
Soft, soft soft; the terrible weight of it making itself apparent only by the contrast of freedom as the force inside builds fit to burst from my chest; to escape any way possible.
Yet I lay myself out on the alter, time and time again.
And hand them cause . . .