by Cynthia Ruth Lewis
It's times like this
that I really miss you, Dad
when Mom is ranting and raving
at her neurotic best
when my nerves are close to being shredded
beyond any hope of repair
when I hate myself
for having hated you
because I misinterpreted your oblivion
and silence as apathy,
when you were probably just trying
to find a happy place inside yourself,
one that didn't include deranged wives
whose psychosis knew no boundaries;
it's times like this
where I can truly sympathize
with the life you never had
I'm sorry, Dad
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment