PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The word is supposed to invoke warmth.

Being loved and safe.

I look to you, ranting about

how you didn't get your way-

we touched 'your' computer

and...



Ten years.

That's how long it's been

since you died;

It's only in my mind,

yet you seem not to notice;

to care.

I'm not hard to miss at

well overweight

yet two feet away and I

am apparently invisible.

I speak, you don't hear.

I cry, and you shake me quiet.

I speak with my siblings;

you demand silence.



Little wrongs sprinkled with gaping wounds.



Gravel and blame thrown at 6 year olds,

a 30 something man on his knee glaring.

I should've known you were gone then.



Little things.

Concerts you were too 'busy' to attend;

couldn't leave the computer or rocketry.

My competitions for choir,

you never saw me sing.

Family trips were a waste of time,

you had to spend time with rockets.

Already you were gone.



I remember -everything-.



Your little digs at Mom,

who had to play mother and father both

Since you, Dad,

were too busy by yourself.



My mother speaks of a time where

sometime in the past

I was a Daddy's girl

Yet, when I was 11, I had

to go to you and beg to come with.

Rockets weren't for girls.

I became ill,

and became cursed for ruining

what was a perfect day to fly.



Scapegoat for the last 12 years.

My fault you lost keys,

that the computer sucks,

that things go wrong.

My fault, so of course that teacup

shattering on the wall,

was meant for my head.

A shame to you, for being a girl;

I understand.

You wanted a Christopher, not me.

A son to make an engineer,

not a daughter to marry off.



I, who know nothing,

as far as you're concerned,

am worth less than dust.

The last time you said three words

was three years ago

after a trip to the hospital

from school because someone

saw what I was doing to myself.



"I love you" and a pat on the shoulder

does not put everything to right.



"I'm sorry" after a screaming match

where you curse my mother and me

does not put everything to right.



You, too wrapped up in work and space,

have not noticed my hair growing,

my dances, my achievements.

No sense of pride within you

I used to try so hard to make you proud.

Why did I even waste my time to

try and make you smile at me?



You still think I'm into ponies and butterflies

A sweet little girl, virgin eyes, ears, body.

Straight, Christian, living an American dream

even as you spend our tight money on rockets

yet deny everyone else simple pleasures.



Pig.

You tried to choose everything

from a distance, of course.

My matches; straight, male

taller, of caucasian skin, good

family and money.

So when I dated a black guy

who lived in a run down building

in a bad town, you flipped.

Not for his status.

For his skin.

Pig.



Daddy.

Where is mine? The father who

regardless of age and gender

loves his children?

Somehow I lost him and saved

nothing but you, a shade.



Ten years, still more pass.



Why bother? You're gone emotionally,

why doesn't your damned shell follow?