I Am a Visitor

I take trazodone to sleep.

Fifty milligrams.

Without it my mind replays

the arguments that ended our marriage.

You told me I was the problem.

You said it enough

that I believed it.

I went to therapy.

I took the pills.

I lay on the floor of the room

that used to be ours

and tried to understand

what was wrong with me.

But I was not the only one causing harm.

You treated every conversation

as a place to prove you were right.

Being right became more important

than being kind.

We both did damage.

Neither of us won.

There is no winning

when a marriage ends

and the children

stand in the middle of it.

I see my kids on a schedule now.

I am not their father

the way I was.

I am a visitor.

They are guests

in whatever room I rent.

This is the truth

that breaks my voice:

the bitterness between us

reached them.

It did not stay between us.

It never does.

I wanted to fight

for what I believed was right.

But the fighting itself

became the harm.

I could not stop.

Neither could you.

You said reconciliation was possible.

I could return

or walk away.

But I will never be free of this.

My anger hurt my children.

And I have to live with that.