He sailed to sleep
on oceans of bitter
angry tears wept
into his pillow
across years of pain
and neglect.
The only time they
noticed him was
when they hurt him.
He didn't know why
he would sit on
the floor and look
up at them and smile
but he always did.
Like he missed them.
Loved them.
The smiles would
sink in his sad little
ocean of weeping
until on the other side
a broken and bitter
man emerged.
He never cried.
He barely felt anything.
This man, lithe from
dodging emotional
connections and clean
friendly physical contact,
seemed more than just
put together. He seemed
superhuman in his way.
He was special. He was funny.
No one could hurt him
or think around his
sometimes cruel machinations.
Inside he wished he
could look up with a smile
and be treasured and loved.
He wished his life had
been softer, less hungry and
much less afraid.
He wished he didn't have
to be strong and cynical.
He wished he was wrong
about things more often.
Wished he could afford
to be, in fact.
He wished most of all
that he could die.

He doesn't know where
the line is between
discipline and abuse.
He's so afraid to get
anywhere near it
that he worries he's
becoming a brand new
kind of bad parent
in the generational saga
of bad parents he has
always been a part of.