When Change Changes Sober

You stumble into my room at three in the morning to tell me that you love me.

But I hate you.

Because your words are slurred, and your steps unsteady.

You never say it with clarity.

A sober mind.

So much time in limbo—

I have to teach you how your credit card works.

That this store doesn’t take checks anymore.

I feel embarrassed, so I apologize to the cashier.

But the ache inside me understands:

you didn’t want to be here.

You drop your change and fumble for the cart as we leave.

When’s the next time that change will change your sober?

When it’s no longer apologies

and quarters rolling across the floor,

but shouting and hands, and driving when you shouldn’t.

It’s love gone wrong.

Daughters become mothers before they can be mothers.

I hate you.

But I love you.

The ache that lives inside me—

to forgive you for an apology I’ll never get.

Not because you never did wrong,

but because you meant to do right.