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what grown up children of alcoholics do*

don't remember you
as well as I'd like to...
there were
fewer intersections
in our lives
I look like you
I've raged like you
I even seem to age like you
fragile-boned before my time.

You left us, me
over and over again
even when you were home
you left me the last time
with a years worth of unpaid bills
and mis-spoken intentions
guaranteed to coddle and deceive
claiming you were only going to
leave a short while.

You left forever
in many ways.

You left me again
when you made another family...
how I know it wasn't their fault
but it was hurtful to me
a piercing kind of ache to
your first born and formally
only daughter who suddenly
and sullenly felt somehow

You left me
on the train platform
saying "this might be
the last time we meet..."
and not telling me
you were dying
leaving  me
with a balled up fist of
questions and pain,
the fingers of it
flexing in the middle of
my chest.

When I think of you
I still don't get
to's a kind of
persistent agony.
How you said to me:
"First born daughter I loved
you first so I love you best."
But I know differently.
(It was a line, I was the fish

You were always leaving.
And not knowing me.
Mostly doing your best
to guess at
who I was.

I wanted more.
But you gave me
what you could.
I have to accept
the facts.
I tell myself, perhaps,
you are watching me now
even as I write this.

Copyright August 17 2013
All Rights Reserved by Author
Melissa A Howells
Meloo straight from her

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