Father called again.
I listened to the message, as usual.
Listened to the scratching of knives on plates. Listened. Listened.
It is noise.
The words, the words you have owed me
for twenty three years, father: they do not come. What I want is for you to be sorry.
For the epiphany to f
upon you like rock.
How could you, for all these years, feel alive,
when so many nights I waited,
crying, at the door,
my young hands clawing at the glass?
You lied, you stole from me, by omission.
And now, I wander from man to man,
filling your bitter shoes with dissapointments,
tar-black, and weather-worn.
Daddy, why must they all love like you love?
Why must they all stink of you
and wear your clothes and talk
as though they are gods?
I survived you, but evil, too, has a thousand faces.
It is you, isn't it? Underneath all those masks?
It is you,
with your bloodshot eyes.
It is you.