hand it over.

she sits 

one leg slung over the couch

her back to me,

her curls lay limp

over one shoulder.

i stare hard 

at the bits of acne

she forgot to cover today

and brace myself.

she does not 

make me feel 

safe,

she does not 

make me feel

at rest

when she is near.

we usually do not share 

words or eyes

if we don't have to.

often times if i do speak up,

i feel as though she 

under minds me,

corrects me 

in her subtle obvious way,

i feel foolish and 

i hate that 

i want to 

cower 

instead of confront.

i think there is a good kind 

of small

and a bad kind of 

small.

this is not the good.

this is the small you feel 

when your words hold 

no weight

you are looked at with 

disdain 

disrespect

and disregard

and there is this air of 

competition 

that i don't even know 

how it got there.

i struggle with grace

and handing it over to her

i don't want to remember

that she is fighting

a battle of such magnitude

she is barely even on the 

winning end.

my heart is trying stay soft

knowing she hasn't much to 

cling to these days

i know i should follow my 

Father's example

and hand out the grace

because heaven knows

He has handed her 

copious amounts

of it already.

sigh.

this is just me 

having a pity party

just for a moment

it's not fair that she gets to be mean

and be miss know it all, is it?

well yes, yes, it is, soul, 

because she is hurting 

and you can just get that ice chip

off your own back, 

and let it melt

let it run down the sides of you,

and hand over the grace.

hand over the 

grace.