Life's A Bitch, Write It Out.


I'm a statistic because of my family.
I'm the derivative of a broken home.
A shattered background of instability and hardship defines me.
The remnants of my childhood are just bits and pieces
that not even scotch tape or Elmers glue are capable of piecing together.
But honestly, these pieces hold me together.

Nineteen years ago my mother conceived me,
legally single with part time employment.
Mistakably, I say but she justifies it purposefully.
She moved to Ohio to be close to home.
My dad disagreed, "Go, but I'll never love that child."
And he doesn't.
No birthday calls or holiday cards.
I wasn't even invited to his wedding.
That was ten years ago, and it still bothers me.

Once he sent me a package filled with things I don't remember.
Maybe he felt guilty.
So he tried to fill the vacant holes of my childhood with little trinkets
and other inexpensive things.
Things he thought held an ounce of potential of making the past forgivable.
It's not about the stuff.
It's not about what you can send in a brown cardboard box
through UPS or FedEx.
It's what you can't.
It's the love and passion.
The memories that never were.

Today I see kids unnappreciative, disrespectful.
"I hate my parents."
That's selfishness at its finest.
How dare you.
Does anyone know what it feels like to have been created
by someone who wants nothing to do with you?
It strangles my heart and leaves me gasping for air
Be thankful for what you have.
You only get one.
One mom and one dad.
I just want what they have.
I want a dad.



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