They sent Daddy home from suicide watch— he was bound to lose it someday. Mom locked up the kitchen knives. She comes back to me, her quivering voice delivers some deluded promise,
“He said he won’t hurt himself, I’m just being safe.”
The house is still silent with absence, he stares at the wall— hidden in the basement like the last twenty thirty years of some void of a life, guarded by an eggshell cracked by decades of denial.
You aged ten years in a weekend, Daddy, And I always feared I’d bury you before I witnessed my first grey hair, silver like the lining of some magical cloud I can’t seem to distinguish in this homogenous fog, looming in the bleak and inescapable sky hovering over me with careless indifference
I knew there’d be a day like this, only now has it come true. I knew you couldn’t love me, Daddy, You never loved you, too.