I cannot judge a man who sold bread
On streets as a child so his mother could eat.
For struggling with anger, with money,
With me.

It is his first time being a father,
It is his first time loving something so small
I scream at myself, I say it over and over.
It does not make it hurt less.

He is learning, he is changing,
But I am a collection of his trials and errors.
He cannot bear to be reminded of his mistakes.
And so he cannot know who I am.

I am just a silly lucky girl.
I have no worries.
I am hurt, I am understanding,
I am tired, yet I sacrifice,
I do not ask, yet I ask for too much.
I am his first daughter.
I am still, somehow, ungrateful.

I am sorry that I need you Father,
I am sorry that I am.
I am sorry.

The weight of her head on my chest,
As we lounge in a state of half-sleep.
Humming our favourite song.

The weight of his arms on my shoulders
While we stroll through busy streets.
Looking for the next bar.

The weight of their laughter,
Laughter that I caused,
Ringing through a full, warm house.

The weight of a child in your hands,
A gummy grin and a high-pitched squeal.
"Aunty" or  "mummy or "*****", don't drop me"

The weight I carry is not bearable,
It is, in fact, too much.
And while I have tried to flee from it,
What the mind forgets the body remembers.

So here I lay missing this;
The weight of her head on my chest,
Of his arms on my shoulders,
Of their laugh ringing in my mind,
Of little hands gripping my fingers.

I beg to carry that weight for a moment longer.
The weight of love.
This unbearably beautiful weight.
For a moment more.

It is done
And we lay in each other's arms.
Catching breaths, sighing deeply.
He will kiss a path up my spine,
Lay one more on my shoulder and hold me.

And for a moment we are more.

Then he comes back to himself,
Remembers who he is, who I am,
And what we are not.

We will do that awkward dance,
A laugh, a silence that lasts a beat too long.
Depending on how the night started,
I will either roll over to my temporary side of the bed
Or slip on denim and wish him a good night.

On the way home I will think
Of who he is, who I am
And all that we are not.

Love hunts.

You will sit, unsuspecting pretty prey,
Feeling a steel gaze upon you.
Lurking in the shadows always watching.
Waiting for a chance to swoop in
And then you are caught.

But you enjoy capture.

Love sinks it’s teeth deep,
Takes purchase in warm, beating flesh
And though you are bleeding out
You will weep, when they try and un-pry
It’s fangs from you.

Love is killing me softly,
But I will allow it to.
It drinks from the well of my life
And leaves me painfully thirsty.
But I will never stop it, not till it’s satisfied.

I am no soldier, waiting for my blaze of glory,
No coward, hiding from the fight.
But love?
Love will take me without struggle,
And truly, what a way to go.

I am 16 and I am excited.
My birthday is coming up soon,
I will be 17 and everything
Will finally be different.

I will almost be an adult.
And my voice will be heard (I think).
I am on the cusp of it,
At the brink of defining my lifetime
(I am picking universities),
Things will be different.

I am 17 and I have makeup on.
(It isn’t great, but my eyelids sparkle)
And I'm wearing a pretty dress.
(A little too big but it sits fine)
My friends say I'm beautiful
And for the first time I believe it.
Things are already different.

I am 17 and I come home.
I am buzzed from dinner,
(They let me have a single glass of wine)
I am high on life,
I feel like I’m infinite, like I’m not so small,
At least not anymore.

Then she sees my dress
And she is disappointed.
She says I look like a “painted *****”,
Not pretty, not more,
Not magical, not different.
And suddenly I don't feel 17.
I mean I am 17, but I don't feel it.

I am 17 and things have changed,
I have changed.
But nothing is different.