The assault never stops. The loss resonates inside me with every child I see. Things that brought me joy have been corrupted into excruciating pain: the empty swingset in my back yard, the toys gathering dust, the dog sad without his boy, and the books with worlds slammed shut.
Add the identity-level attacks: disgusting whore, joke as a person, failure, failure, failure. All from my daughter, my sacrifice ruled inadmissible; nevermind the cars (three totaled), the house (nearly lost to the state), the friends (and one’s parent) given room and board, summer camp, birthday trips, the drive to Charlotte after the missed flight, candlelight baths with lavender, pets, lamb chops and rosemary potatoes, then years of meatless meals, Christmas in the mountains, and nearly a month at the beach one year. The endless hours of taking the drunken psychological abuse. None of this matters.
My past has been murdered by the one I always dropped everything for, leaving the university in the middle of class and the restaurant with active tables to come to the rescue of the one who has banished me. The one I gave life to will never stop punishing me for that.
I sink deeper into loss and despair, permanently branded: worthless.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Ekke Ekke Ekke Ekke Ptang Zoo Boing!
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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