legacy support (EOL)

T.O.O.

think of others.

my mother said it like some people say grace.

often enough that eventually you stop hearing the words and start living inside them.

notice who is uncomfortable.

move. give them safe space. as much as they need.

make yourself smaller if necessary.

do not leave somebody else holding a bag you had two perfectly good hands to help carry.

i was excellent at this once.

a fucking professional.

good enough to eventually notice that a person can spend an extraordinary amount of time thinking of others while nobody in particular is thinking of them.

turns out you can spend your whole life that way, become a remarkably convenient place for other people to put things.

their burdens.

their inner turmoil.

their rough upbringing.

their irrational decisions.

their fucking Tuesday.

after a while i got tired of being the emotional coat check.

so i stopped.

nothing dramatic.

no champagne. no fire. no little black dress and a city glowing below me.

i just started giving things back.

your feelings?

yours.

your choices?

also yours.

your problems?

you are never going to believe this.

yours.

i could know exactly why people were bleeding

without opening a vein to make them feel less alone.

i called this heartless.

mostly because everyone else did.

personally, i thought it had excellent boundaries.

then my mother, my number one, exited this world, with a bullet.

and suddenly 'think of others' did not sound like an exhausting little moral slogan anymore.

it sounded like a warning i had misunderstood.

oh, shit. apparently someone could sit across from you

drink coffee

answer questions

make plans

laugh, even.

and still be standing with one foot somewhere you could not follow.

apparently fine was a costume.

apparently you could miss the end of the world

because it happened inside somebody else.

that fucked up the math considerably.

so i started looking again.

hard.

at everybody.

everything.

a pause half a second too long.

a text without the usual punctuation.

a joke that hit the floor wrong.

a voice one degree colder than yesterday.

i became a freelance private investigator for human despair.

are you okay?

no, really.

are you okay?

what exactly did you mean by “lol”

it was exhausting.

but this time exhaustion felt almost holy.

because it was honoring her legacy.

T.O.O.

the interface she had installed before i was old enough to know there were other operating systems.

fine.

i would run it.

i would think of others.

i would look twice.

i would knock.

i would knock again.

i would make goddamn sure that nobody i loved managed to disappear while i was staring right at them.

and then

you.

Christ.

you got the deluxe package.

full service.

late checkout.

complimentary understanding delivered directly to the room.

i thought around corners for you.

translated contradictions.

separated addiction from character.

pain from intention.

damage from malice.

i found distinctions so thin you could have shaved with them

because i wanted there to be one place on earth

where you did not have to become good

or bad

before you were allowed to remain human.

i learned the architecture of your wounds.

which doors stuck.

which floorboards creaked.

which rooms you had stopped entering.

i kept asking if you were okay.

if you felt seen.

if you felt understood.

if there was some language i had not tried yet

some frequency

some password

some miracle of fucking syntax

that would finally let you hear

i see you.

i am still here.

you do not disgust me.

i love you.

turns out compassion is not contagious.

you can reach inside yourself and pull it out

warm and dripping

hold it toward somebody with both hands

and watch them set it on the end table

with the keys the loose change the crumpled receipts

where it sits leaking quietly into the wood

until eventually it slides off

and hits the floor with a wet little slap.

you can let somebody bleed all over you until you know which wounds need pressure

which ones need air

which ones will open again if you touch them wrong.

then one day you bleed.

and the person whose blood is still drying on your shirt

goes pale

and faints at the sight of it.

there it was.

the old equation.

still sitting exactly where i left it.

empathy without reciprocity is just depletion with better branding.

and now

i can feel the lights going out again.

not all at once.

one section at a time.

like a city losing power block by block.

each click throws another whole section of the room into darkness.

click. i do not ask the second question.

click. i stop translating somebody’s behavior into the kindest possible language.

click. i let silence mean silence.

click. somebody thinks i am cruel

and for once

i do not rush over with a bucket to put out the fire in their opinion of me.

i am sure there is supposed to be some happy medium here.

a tasteful little dimmer switch.

care, but not too much.

understand, but maintain boundaries.

be open, but not porous.

very elegant.

very emotionally regulated.

and yes.

maybe there is a healthier version of me living in an alternate reality in a cozy little house built on this middle ground.

maybe she understands people without carrying them.

maybe she keeps the inheritance without becoming the family business.

sounds lovely.

i hope she enjoys herself.

unfortunately, on this side of superposition, moderation and i have never been on speaking terms.

i have two settings.

everything.

nothing.

and i can feel the machine leaning toward nothing.

i am not stopping it.

for the same reason i do not actively stop or start much of anything anymore.

intervention requires an emotional investment in outcomes.

i have none.

the ability to care has been stripped away.

all that is left is the awareness. the recognition.

my mother taught me to think of others.

her final act taught me why.

and almost everyone who came after

has been kind enough

to remind me

why i stopped doing it in the first place.