I used to carry you in the palm of my hand. Out like this, see. You were that small. I’d have your head in my palm and you’d just look back at me. You were so tiny and you didn’t do anything then, for years, without me.
You don’t think of that now, probably. That every where you went before you could walk, I carried you there. And when you could walk, I was there, too.
I thought you would be the best things of me. I thought I could give you those and not the rest. That if there was something in you, I put it there, or it was there from me even if I didn’t.
But that’s not true, is it? I can’t believe that’s true and not blame myself. I blamed myself for a long time, but I can’t and keep living unbroken.
There is violence in you. There’s something dark and untouchable in you and it makes you do bad things, and I didn’t put it there.
I can’t even want to take it away. I can’t admit anything to myself except that I loved you, for a while. And that I used to carry you in the palm of my hand, like this, see? And that maybe even then there was already violence in your tiny heart, fingers or mind. Where ever it is.