Passions produce high-reaching flames, and fire only knows to destroy everything in its path. Rough-and-tumble cowboys settle nothing, in territory consumed without regard for the innocents. Nothing is spared, when red can swallow everything whole. The house of love becomes a pile of ashes.
I will lock these concerns away. There is no need to resolve any issues, or grievances, I have against love. I am a life-sized, cardboard cut-out of a mother. A cheap imitation, that will have to suffice. My focus must be on the children. Hands are to prepare meals, and place Band-Aids on scraped knees. Lips are to kiss aching heads, and dispel fears of the boogeyman. Beds are to sleep on.
Soon, my sister will begin to scream. She is the punctual sort. One day, I imagine she will rip out her vocal chords, and wrap them around her children. The punishments she doles out, are not very inventive, but they should be. One gets bored of the same tricks and kicks.
My patience is accosted by anger. Sometimes, it grabs hold of my head, and I cannot win the fight. Those moments only pass, after I have unleashed my rage on physical objects. I am troubled over what this does to the children. A madwoman, breaking things against the wall. The person who promised them safety, and stability. I am sure that they only see more of their mother, more of their father.
I fear this is my fate, and in these matters, the person is of less importance than the purpose. I am a means to an end. These children must thrive, they must reach safe land, even if it means riding on my back.