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I loved you
But you were an alcoholic
And I was just another bottle of
I thought I was special
I awake in a dream upon my bed,
upon which I have never lain my head,
to soft sunlight and a gentle wind
through curtains of a life that has never been.

I hear the comforting whispers of hearth and home…
…something I have never known.
Words are spoken from a wife I’ve never met
as plates and forks on a table are set.
“Wake your father.  It’s time to eat.”
Words from a woman, I will never meet.

Footsteps clatter right to my door
until, before me, stands a girl of four.
Her hands held at her chest,
her eyes impale the soul in my breast
She asks, “Daddy, where are you?”
Spoken by a daughter I never knew.

She inhales deep and frees a sigh,
eyes downcast she turns from my bed and I
wake to darkness and sadness, both the same.

I would give my soul for just her name.
Bravery is the disease
that leads men into
their graves.
I've got enough
words in my heart
to write a novel.
But it would be a bad novel.
Pages and pages of *******,
bad advice and cliches
that I didn't even know
were cliches.
But even I know
that it would have its good parts.
 May 2012 Seth Connor Jackson
Did you get those scars on your knees from praying?
Or ******* your fathers **** inside the barn?
or did you pray while doing it
that he would choke on his own satisfied face?
did you sit inside his church listening to him preach
hypocrisy to family and friends
while you swallowed back that bitter taste he left in your mouth
the one that tasted like an anger so pure it made your eyes water?
did you wait patiently for him to finish his speeches about
salvation, jesus, god and being sinless
whilst you prayed in that godless church, he would miss a step
fall and break his neck?
Was that thought the only thing that gave light to your eyes?
did you think these things while you brushed the dirt and gravel off your knees
wash the blood in the toilet
Put on your Sunday dress and look at yourself in the mirror
with empty eyes
that knew nothing but hate
and a shame so heavy it made you hate the act of breathing?
because every time you did it reminded you of the weight on your chest that no amount
of air
(like the time he sat on you when you were sleeping)

Do you think that gods disciples and prostitutes have the same knees?
Do you think anyone can tell the difference?

Does the cross around your neck ever threaten
to get so tight it chokes you?
so hot, it burns your skin?

Too much praying gets you to the same place
when you're left with nowhere to dish out your pain
and too many unanswered questions, on your knees
on your ******* knees
about fathers and gravel, dirt **** and spit
*We all get ****** in the end
For Janice, the girl with empty eyes and a bible in her backpack.

— The End —