Poetry Written at 3am

Father

I remember the color of your eyes,
Same as mine.
I remember that you were tan,
Same as me.
I remember you barely came to visit,
I'd still wait.
I don't remember your face.
I don't remember your voice.
I don't remember your family.
I don't remember your favorite color or what I called you.
I don't remember what you called me or your birthday.
I do remember one day you stopped coming.
And I remember when you sent me a birthday card months after my birthday.
I remember the last time I talked to you and it was over the phone.
I remember when my mom went to court against you for my custody.
I remember finding out you had other kids you left.
I want to meet my little brothers so badly.
Do you remember leaving your kids?
What our voices used to sound like?
What colors our eyes are?
The color of our hair?
What we'd call you?
What you called us?
How excited your little girl was when you would visit?
I can't remember anything about you or how you acted with me and my family.
I do remember thinking that you were amazing and could do no wrong.
I was wrong.
Because you are a irrumator.
And you broke me.
And other people then broke me more.
But it was you who broke me first. And I'm still trying to pick up the pieces.
But I've shattered time and time again and never been able to pick up all the pieces. I'm just a shell. Nothing more and nothing less.