Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
margo-poloPoems
When I  die         (if my parents don't know)         remember to weigh me judiciously with authorial intent. Don't let my father go to the front and tell everyone what a good daddy's girl I was         how I loved fishing with him         and wore my camo pants like a champ.                                 I was 2.                                 I didn't know better. Don't let my mother's lip tremble or let her say how much my writing made her cry         how I spent my evenings worshiping textbooks         and typing til 2 am for large red A's on my papers.                                 I was worshiping the body and mind of a guy                                 who never wanted me back. Don't let my father see my body         the tattoo next to my left hip bone         the one I got my freshman year                                 because why the **** not. Don't let my mother see my face         the rings in my lip and nose and ears         because they told me only ***** had those                                 and I wanted to see if they were right. Don't let my father tell stories afterwards         all my achievements and awards         every 100% I ever gave.                                 He never told them to me.                                 He only has pride in the dead. Don't let my mother tell stories afterwards         because she'll get them right         but tell them wrong.                                 She'll either laugh or cry halfway through                                 and I don't know which is worse. Don't let my father sing the hymns         or even say how much he loved hearing my voice.                                 I could never hear myself over him. Don't let my mother lament that I never sang for her         she knew why                                 she married him. Don't let them tell you how I was a good Catholic girl         who always went to mass         and prayed the rosary on roadtrips         and never ate meat on Fridays during Lent (not even on accident).                                 I stopped going to mass after freshman year                                 and never prayed while driving                                 and made it a point to eat as much meat                                                                         as I possibly ******* could. Don't let them tell you how I was a good sister         how excited I was when she was born         so helpful and caring.                                 She never fell off the bed when she was little.                                 I kicked her. But especially don't let them trick you into thinking I was perfect.         I do not want to be canonized by my parents                 who knew so little                         and saw even less                                 because I hid myself away                                         so they wouldn't be                                                 disappointed. In fact, don't let them come at all. They'll be mourning the wrong girl.
0
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
Intentional Fallacy
When I  die         (if my parents don't know)         remember to weigh me judiciously with authorial intent. Don't let my father go to the front and tell everyone what a good daddy's girl I was         how I loved fishing with him         and wore my camo pants like a champ.                                 I was 2.                                 I didn't know better. Don't let my mother's lip tremble or let her say how much my writing made her cry         how I spent my evenings worshiping textbooks         and typing til 2 am for large red A's on my papers.                                 I was worshiping the body and mind of a guy                                 who never wanted me back. Don't let my father see my body         the tattoo next to my left hip bone         the one I got my freshman year                                 because why the **** not. Don't let my mother see my face         the rings in my lip and nose and ears         because they told me only ***** had those                                 and I wanted to see if they were right. Don't let my father tell stories afterwards         all my achievements and awards         every 100% I ever gave.                                 He never told them to me.                                 He only has pride in the dead. Don't let my mother tell stories afterwards         because she'll get them right         but tell them wrong.                                 She'll either laugh or cry halfway through                                 and I don't know which is worse. Don't let my father sing the hymns         or even say how much he loved hearing my voice.                                 I could never hear myself over him. Don't let my mother lament that I never sang for her         she knew why                                 she married him. Don't let them tell you how I was a good Catholic girl         who always went to mass         and prayed the rosary on roadtrips         and never ate meat on Fridays during Lent (not even on accident).                                 I stopped going to mass after freshman year                                 and never prayed while driving                                 and made it a point to eat as much meat                                                                         as I possibly ******* could. Don't let them tell you how I was a good sister         how excited I was when she was born         so helpful and caring.                                 She never fell off the bed when she was little.                                 I kicked her. But especially don't let them trick you into thinking I was perfect.         I do not want to be canonized by my parents                 who knew so little                         and saw even less                                 because I hid myself away                                         so they wouldn't be                                                 disappointed. In fact, don't let them come at all. They'll be mourning the wrong girl.
intentional fallacy (n): in literary criticism, a fallacy involving assessment of a literary work based on the author's intended meaning rather than the actual response to the work
#death#father#mother#funeral#parents#mourning#grieving#fallacy
margo-polo
Written by
margo-polo
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem