The one before me
remembers your face.
She still holds the fear
of a child abandoned,
watching a television full of static,
searching for safety,
comforting me because you wouldn't.

I'm blessed not to hold that pain.

The one you left behind a while after
fears a God you never taught loves
     her.
The world is pain and rage in her
     vision.

I was taught so different.

The youngest-
we can't find him.
We follow your path,
assuming it consumed him.
I desperately pray he still possesses
An ounce of faith and innocence.

They don't know a mother's touch.
They've never been rocked with love,
though too old and grown.
They don't connect with a father,
hugged after an explosion and told
'I love you.'

From the same womb as me,
we carry the same blood.
Yet only I
have ever felt loved.

What makes me so much more worthy?