A poem for My Father
You claim to love me
however, you watch
as I'm torn apart
as if I'm nothing special to you
How can you claim
that I will be okay
when you won't stick around to watch my pain?
Has it become a bit much for you,
suddenly my slow death has become too grim for you?
Tell me, papa
does it hurt
to regret how I died
with my eyes open wide still searching for
you
Tell me, papa
does it hurt to know you're the blade on my wrist carving the words
that put me to death?
YOU ARE READING
Philophobia
PoetryAssorted 100% original poetry pieces. Also some random excerpts from small stories (also original). Philophobia: (n.) a fear of love, falling in love WARNING: Indirect and direct references to sexual assault, depression, self-harm and suicide
