Pick up the pieces when they’re floating away
And seek that support which he came to give
Only he’s not and he’s paying his admission to the frolic of our home
Frolic which was manufactured by his hands, his words, his fists and feet
Our family, by the hour excepted defeat
Where’s your cherry smile gone Mum?
Why do you lock yourself away in your room with your bruises and black eye?
I hear you wailing like some banshee, like you are giving birth and I cringe now
I hide too, veiled in the dust of the attic but I’m with silence
I’m thinking and hurting within
Listening to the anger whistling in the wind
Kade’s gone and has been for days
There’s so many chances he could be dead, there’s so little time and too many ways
I think of him and hope he is okay
But images of him drowning in some more opaque fell just wanting warmth appear
Maybe he was the smart one running from the divorced beast that sought after his and my own hands
But I’m pulling away
I don’t want his hand
…. I want him gone
YOU ARE READING
You Can't Make It Right When Its So Wrong
PoetryI’m expressing myself while life makes its own sticky web, and I’m the fly, actually my family are the flies and he is the spider. I just keep thinking that its going to end bad, bloods already been spilled, too much damage has already been done and...
