October 26, 2014
The 32 pack of bud wiser. The cupboards full of various drugs and alcohol. The hot breath of aged whiskey followed by a thick smell of tobacco.
The strong uppercuts to the stomach.
The elbows to the jaw.
The kicks to my head and my stomach; to my legs, to all of me.
The curse words, the threats.
The shamefully degrading statements and names.
The taunts, the yelling and crying and suicidal thoughts.
All any little boy needs is a mother and a father. You fucking left. Mom, mom didn't have a choice. You took that away from her and then you left me like I was absolutely nothing. I needed a fucking father figure. I needed someone to congratulate me for my first win in the tee-ball game. I needed someone to say goodnight to me nightly.
But you didn't want me.
You gave up on an eight year old boy after he just lost his sister and mother. You left your little boy.
Gone. Foster home after foster home, promising and guaranteeing false happiness, safety, and claiming it was what was best for me. And ever since the first home, things have happened. Things have changed. If you would have just stayed I'd be a completely different person today.
And yet I always think about finding out a few years from now that you tried to contact me, that I have all these letters just waiting for me to read of my dad saying he loves and misses me. But I know that's not how things will happen.
Family. "Nobody gets left behind." Where are you? Why don't you want me?
When I was younger, I'd have nightmares and you told me "count to ten and it'll go away."
Did you count to ten when you signed the papers?
When you left to start a new life with a new family?
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
Why aren't my questions going away? Why aren't they being answered? I thought I deserved at least that much.
