Gaea

And there I was

Sliding out the womb

Breath of fresh air, expected

Delivered into stale air and a slanted room

Apparently after my father’s pump and dump,

He was through

Too consumed

By flesh desired

Started a life, set a flame ablaze

Then tried to snuff it out with his absence

Retired

To forget me,

I still existed on this side of his responsibility

Hoping he’d return from the store

With the milk I couldn’t have

I’m lactose

Lacking those

Memories of myself as a child growing into a whisper of a man until I taught myself to yell for the help I needed to mend the hole

His departure tore open

My first lesson in giving up hope

I just wanted to be wanted

Bob Ross painted happy leaves on smiling trees

I don’t feel like that kind of mistake

What kind of man strokes canvas with his brush and walks away from the painting?

I’m not sure which is worse:

Being the son the father ate

Or the spawn he hates

I’d’ve happily traded my turn on life’s grind stone with Saturn’s son

Kibble for Father Time

Rather than bits that tired-excuse-of-a-dog couldn’t stomach

But what kind of father eats his own son then raises me?

Perhaps Gaea gave my father the same prophecy