i don't remember his face anymore. i see his nose in mine, the way my body grows like a long vine and not my mother's athletic build, why my face is smaller and more ovaled. i though i'd banished that foolish child's voice, the one that softly asked, "what if, tomorrow?" when i'd thought hope had died, and it somehow managed to sprout between the concrete i laid. he's not a bad person, my mother says. 23 years later, 8 of which i missed, the man that hurt us both, she still defends him. i wish he was worse, so it was easier to hate him and not hold out for silly nothings. it was easy to ignore for a little while, you know. until the father/daughter dances, until i had to explain my family tree, until people asked why they only ever saw my mother. because she'd had to be two people, i said. because she did what was best. because she fought for the little face she'd cried and laboured to bring earthside. she's all i've got, and she's plenty. i'm not really scared to die anymore. i came into this world kicking and screaming, into my mother's arms. i feel no fear in going to sleep and seeing her again.
YOU ARE READING
what i would've gave
Poetry#17 in poetry! part 1 - there are so many things i wish i could tell him. ask him. scream at him. but he's not coming back and i don't want it. not anymore, not the way i used to. the day i stopped calling him dad was the day he died. part 2 - som...
