Safe Places

My car has become the only place where I can mourn. As usual, at work and at home, I have to pretend that I'm not being ripped apart so that I can continue to make enough money to survive and to perpetuate the permanent lie that has become my entire existence: that nothing is wrong. Because in my house, you don't cry. It's like stealing or kicking old people: you just don't. So, I can cry twice a day: on the way to work, and on the way home. Would this kid have been a singer like me? Or smart like its father? Would it have my eyes? Would it be an optimist, like he is, or a pessimist like me? I'm killing myself asking these questions, but I can't stop. Just like I can't breathe. Is this some kind of punishment for something I did? Everybody says that this doesn't mean I can't have kids when I grow up...but I don't want others. I want that one. I want the one I couldn't keep safe the first time. I want the one I can't stop thinking about now. I don't want to live anymore.