Keshena’s story gets real sad, real quick, and it doesn’t get much better by the end. The more I work on it, the more I understand the trauma of my own that I was expressing through her, and the errors in her thinking that lead to her never being able to grow beyond that. I can see how and why I dodged her fate. That’s… difficult to look at. Painful, and fascinating. I have to not give too many hours of the day to staring at it. There’s a level of self-examination that is healthy, and there’s a level that will cause you to pick yourself to pieces, atom by atom, until you are nothing but a heap for someone to move about with tweezers. I hit that second level by about nine in the morning most days.
Something for her daughter, then.
Child of the morning, I failed you first.
Volcano’s daughter, born to sacrifice –
in that way, I guess I failed you twice.
I gave nothing; your father gave his curse.
Never did a thing in life but stumble.
When can one mistake erase all the rest?
Can’t even claim to think I did my best –
every time it mattered I would fumble.
What is it worth that I always loved you?
What does it matter, I thought it was right?
Each day you’re glad of the sky above you,
each day you don’t curse the day I birthed you,
will be a sign that I was more than spite,
that time has washed my poison out of you.