Daddy I got three stars today, said the little one. I was the best in our class; it's true. But the father paid no attention. He didn't make a move. He just laid still as his daughter left the room.

Daddy I made new friends today, said the little one. And the other kids were very kind to me; it's true. But the father made no remark. He didn't even give a nod. He just laid still as his daughter leaves the room.

Daddy I won in a writing competition, said the little one. They even gave me a blue ribbon for my poem; it's true. But the father showed no smile. He didn't even look. He just laid still as his daughter was about to leave the room.

Little one, what are you doing here, asked the graveyard man. I was just talking to my father, sir; it's true. But your father is long gone, little one; he died a year ago. He's lying still inside his coffin — in this crypt, in this room.

I know, sir, said the little one. Pain creeping upon her face, so true. She said, to tell you frankly, I didn't get a three star either; I did so poorly on all my classes. I have no friends because I’m an orphan. My poem didn't win first prize. None of it were true.

But please see, please understand sir, begged the little one. With pain so bluntly piercing. The sorrow, scorchingly cold. Her sweet voice a contrast to the bitterness of her words, she goes:

When life is too much to bear, reality too blinding too face, and love too far away to follow, truth is what you make of it. Truth is what you wish it to be.

Today my son did
His first steps
And he ran towards me
Saying "Mummy" and smiling
And he managed to walk fast
When he dropped the chair he was leaning on
You know, having a child is extraordinary.
God gave me the strength to have a beautiful little boy
I've become a completely different woman
I became very protective
And I understand certain things
I understand why the mothers of my exes were so protective of their sons
Sometimes I thought it was over the top but I understand now (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
I think when he grows up I'll be even worse than them
Anyway, if I ever find someone (which isn't my priority) I'd love to have lots more babies
If I don't find someone who reflects me, I'll ask for a donor.
I don't need a man in my life to be happy
I already have my lover my son Liam
My son comes first
It's not a priority
If he doesn't love one of the men I'm dating I'll stay single for life if I have to. I love my son more than anything in the world
Since he came into the world
He's been my reason for living
I write but I cry with emotion
When I was little I dreamt of him
I knew that when I grew up I'd have a little boy
I love you Liam

She likes it
when it barks,

she likes the noise it makes:

a child crying
without the guilt.

Agressive and violent;
not her fault.

The victim of blood-soaked eyes
and gnashing teeth.

The victim of a deafening silence,
and the deafening need

to fill it.

You're my little prince,
My sunlight, my moonlit glow.
travel through worlds unknown,
Leaving footprints wherever we go.

A great-great granddaughter
Is tracing our family tree.
She thinks she’s got my hair.
Sunday giggles pointing kindred,
Mapping stories.
Her mother remembers you fondly,
and insists she has your wit.

Delusional,

I think.

(At least she got that loud laugh from me)

I’m dreaming again:
She is just like me

No she ain't got your wit.
or your  charming silver tongue.

Nope.

Those talents must be lying

in some branches

of some other future kid’s

family tree.

Let’s not sugarcoat it.
You didn’t protect me.
You didn’t question it.
You didn’t even blink
when she took my life
and signed it over to stone walls and locked doors.

I’ve been made permanent, Dad.
Not “just until things settle.”
Not “a term, maybe two.”
Permanent.
She made the decision.
She made the call.
And you?
You just stood there like a ******* statue,
held together with whatever spine she let you borrow.

And guess what?
You still don’t know.
Because she has been feeding you her version of reality
while threatening me into silence.

“You’ll make things worse.”
“He doesn’t need the stress.”
“You’re lucky we even—“

Shut the **** up.

I’m done being lucky to exist.
Done being silent so your wife can sleep better knowing that I’m far away,
tucked neatly into a place she doesn’t have to see.

She calls it “what’s best.”
I call it what it is:
exile
with a pretty brochure.

She erased me, Dad.
And you handed her the whiteout.  

You think you’re keeping the peace?
There’s no peace here.
There’s just you
living a lie so loud it drowns out
the sound of your daughter breaking.  

Do you know what it feels like
to be warned not to tell the truth
because you might not believe me?

Do you know how disgusting that is?
That I don’t even trust my own father
to choose me
over the woman who’s been gutting me
with fake smiles and cold silences since
I was eleven?

Let’s not pretend anymore:
You let her win.
You let her rewrite what “family” means
until I didn’t fit in the ******* sentence.

So here’s your truth:
I’m not okay.
I’m not “thriving.”
I’m surviving on scraps,
packing trauma into a dorm drawer,
waiting for someone to notice I never come home.

And since no one will say it—
Happy Birthday, Dad.
Hope the cake tastes sweet
while your real kid sits miles away
eating silence.

Hope the presents are stacked high
while I unwrap another year of being invisible.
Hope her kids call you Daddy
loud enough to drown out
what you gave up.

But when the party’s over,
and the house is clean,
and she’s sipping wine on the couch
like none of this ever happened—
I hope it hits you.
I hope my absence rots in your stomach.

Because I’m still here.
Still screaming between the lines.
Still writing you into every ******* word
because I don’t know how to make you
look at me.

So yeah.
Happy Birthday.

You got your quiet life.
And I got forgotten.

What in the world could he be doing?
Circling back and forth like a vulture.
No point in asking. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t think me dead meat, and dead meat doesn’t talk back.

She cooked with love  
but not In the way that most people  
think Of such things when they say it    
  
It wasn't that you could taste her love  
In the flavor or even that she loved to cook  
It was that there were always leftovers  
  
Sometimes that meant more of our favorites  
Like homemade pizza for breakfast on Saturday  
And sometimes it meant more meatloaf  

But what it always meant was there was room  
At the table for another chair or two or three  
That it never felt like an imposition to share a  
Meal or the warmth around the table with someone  
Who needed it and our friends stayed more than  
They left when she called “suppers ready”  
  
It meant that there was always food in the  
Fridge ready to be reheated and doled out  
to hungry Teenagers whether they belonged  
To her or not and that “no thanks” or “I'm fine”  
Just meant she moved to the next shelf  
and tried again until there was a “sure”  
  
And as the years went on it never changed  
Just the people around the table
There was always a friend or a neighbor  
Who would gladly fill those seats because  
Mom always cooked with love  
And there were always leftovers