You built a house and filled it with death images.
Memories that were none.
You evoked an atmosphere that branded itself into my brain.
I was born into the horror of your words.
You spoke to me as a personal possession.
About me as if I were of no use, as if I’d never matter.
I waited for you most of my life, abandoned and neglected,
You’d forget me, you didn’t care, and I thought I’ll never make it home.
You planted sentences in my head that I’d never forget
Or rid myself of.
You cursed the existence of my body.
The hunger within me, the lack I suffered.
You dragged me along the same destitute street that you knew so well.
Shoving my face into the dirt, teaching me, teaching me.
Love, it never sounded right.
Your mouth sounds wrong.
Your touch, as rarely as it comes, all wrong.
Dishonest, ill-intentioned, draining, in need, bloodthirsty.
You took and took and mocked me still,
And I kept feeding you, myself, listening to your language
Used against me, weaponised fatherhood,
Love sounds wrong, love sounds like a head-hunter, a curse on my shoulders.
Croque-Melpomene 