changes

when i was a child,
i thought my father was the problem,
and that my mother was a saint,
but now when things get difficult,
she puts me on the street,
in the dark and the cold,
while my dad drives 2 hours,
sick, tired, broke, and worried,
to pick me up,
from in front of my old school,
my cheeks are tear stained,
and i have bruises on my skin,
and no matter how many times it happens,
he comes,
he comes and he respects my choice to go back,
he knows that its hard to change my mind,
to make me realize she is no saint,
that he was not always the problem,
that i am no longer a child,
and he respects that,
this time is the last time,
i will move to an entirely different state,
not on my own thankfully,
my sister will take me in,
but still, it’s a change,
there’s a weight on me,
as the pressure builds,
the pressure to not return,
the pressure to follow through,
and i can not breathe,
and my mother is not a saint,
and my father is not the problem,
and i am no longer a child.