I have a kid now.

Not in the usual way
in which one goes about
having a kid,
but I have one nonetheless.

He’s fifteen and beautiful.
And I mean that.

He’s got thick, curly hair
and molten eyes
spilling pain and joy
all at once.
His smile is epic
and he’s funny
and special
and so, so, so amazing.

This kid isn’t really mine
but it feels like he is.

I love him as close
to how I’d love a kid
who was actually mine,
and maybe more
because I know how it feels
to be him,
to be broken
by the people
who are supposed
to love you the most.

I know how it feels
to be thrown away.

I look at him
and only see good
even when he’s not listening
and driving me crazy.

And it makes me insane
to know people have hurt him,
have made him feel alone
and unworthy
because he deserves more.

More than abandonment.
More than pieces of love.

He deserves full,
suffocating love.

The kind that never gives up,
that protects him
even at the cost of itself.

My kid radiates resilience
and he’s lucky he does.
Not many who have suffered
like him survive,
but he will.

He will grow
and learn
and know what it feels like
to have someone fight for him
no matter what
because he’s my kid
and I’ll never stop loving him,
never stop fighting
for his happiness.




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