break

broken_heart

 

Did you ever dream what you wanted to be, what you needed to be

What you would do for ME?

Did you ever give the envelope a shove, place yourself high above

HIM?

Did he slap away your hand as you drowned in the sand

Bring poison to your place bearing an obscene face

Delicate flower to never forget the REASON they met

…the image is burnt.  Is it the day you just learnt

To despise and feel scorn? Curse the day you were born?

Thrust to claw and defend

A broken soul with no mend

I think about you

In the darkest of days, in my most heated rage

I think of you. 

I see you.

I think when I see you

Imma ki** you.

F-DAY

It’s Father’s Day, and usually it’s a day that depresses me with bad memories and bitterness. Thankfully, for the second year, I can see the word “father” and now associate it with kindness and love.

I know I’m not the only person who comes from a broken home. And I can feel that others have forgiven and forgotten their parents’ indiscretions (if indeed, there were any). But I can’t seem to do that. Not even with my 31 years and what I believe to be a compassionate heart.
I don’t care what kind of flack I get. I will get really personal with you, because if you know me, then straight up is the only way I can be.
I don’t give a f*ck if you stick your ting into a woman, produce a child, and somehow proclaim yourself to be a father.  Because once that child is born, you’re supposed to KNOW that love, devotion, and responsibility are paramount to that family’s growth and success. You do NOT (“hypothetically speaking”) bring your pregnant mistress into your family home to meet your children, regardless of how pretty she tells your youngest daughter she is.
I hear it all the time: blood is thicker than water. Respect your elders. Blah fucking blah. If you DISrespect me, my family, or the way I live my life, do you really expect daisies and lollipops in return, just because I so happened to acquire genes from a random man and woman one day so long ago?
Mothers are not automatically off the hook either, but that’s a totally different story.  I’m already flubber-faced and teary-eyed as I write this, and forcing myself to come back to the present and be grateful for what I have right NOW.
I have a wonderful child and I’m married to, I swear, the kindest man I could ever know;  one who loves our daughter and me, his wife, without bounds, who would never leave my side and protects all that is sacred within a real, loving family.
THAT is what Father’s Day is about. As I sit here and wipe my hideously snotty nose and red puffy eyes, hubby tells me that it’s been so long and I’m completely fine without him. This is true. But I don’t forget. EVER. How I wish one day I truly could. But look at what’s been done. I’ve been messed up for life.
Sometimes a girl really just wants her daddy.