melissaahowells
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*I 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 replaced. 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 rest...it'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 nibbling.) 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 Tilt-a-World Vote for this poem |
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