Heartbreak
And in some terrible moment
in a hotel in Valdosta, your daughter,
who collapsed in the parking lot,
blind from the dizzying effects
of standing too quickly after
traveling too long, and the blood
pooled in her legs, something
often invisible, but now so red
that you see it bright as anger,
something she lives with everyday,
that she has inherited and that
makes her heart race and causes
her to pause and face down
a hard reality, the threat of genetics,
when talk turns to the future and
children, and "why would I take
that risk?" And it's painful to see
your daughter, one of three
precious arguments for your life,
crying on a hotel floor, handed
a fight you cannot fight, and
whispering into her knees,
"Sometimes I hate my life."
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