I am tired.

Oh so tired of being torn.

I am two.

Split.

Ripped.

Tired.

The sides are all I have ever known.

Black and white.

Mother v. Father.

It now clicks, doesn’t it?

Pity after understanding.

But when people learn of my predicament, do they really understand?

Do they know the endless cycle?

Do they know how to pack up their lives in bags?

Do they really understand?

Does the moon understand the sun?

No.

Unless they’ve been the ones packing.

But what is there to do?

Wince, maybe cry a little, and get up.

Move on.

Or maybe… maybe… someone speaks for the torn children. Someone tells the parents. Someone does something.

Rather than nothing.

What exactly?

I don’t know.