At most, it felt cold.

When you held me it felt cold.

At most, it felt cold.

I wasn’t sure why you were there,

Appearing in the space,

Where my mother should have been.

I thought if I gleaned a promise from my father,

That I would remain first in his eyes,

It wouldn’t matter that your presence,

Signalled something dying inside.

Don’t get me wrong, here.

It wasn’t the breaking of my family that caused this soulless rift between you and I,

It was the day you screamed at my father to take my brother with him at the door of your mothers house.

Though he shouted back that he hadn’t seen me in weeks.

It’s the pale memory, of my mother waking beside me to a phone call that I knew disturbed her.

It was the day he grounded me, for nothing much, though I only visited twice a month for a one night sleepover.

I snuck out later that night to the landing.

Bare feet dangling in the dark over that scratchy carpet. I heard you both laugh. You needed to go to a party.

I can’t remember much, but I know it was my name on your lips as you walked out the door, congratulating yourselves on punishing me.

It was the talk my father had, each time you had a child, where he told me that the less than 96 hours we would spend together a month was to be whittled down.

Because babies come first.

The first conversation was when I was 8.

The last conversation was when I was 16, and he told me he wouldn’t be visiting anymore.

You had finally had a girl.

It was your ‘unintentional’ slip, the only Christmas I stayed with you at 10 years old, that stole the magic away.

It’s not the breaking of a family that hurts the most.

It’s the innumerable moments that a child is reminded of how someone new wishes they had, quite simply, never been born.

But because I was born, a thousand paper cuts, emotional in nature, of course, would have to suffice.

You’re one of my obsessions, because I can’t understand,

Why you appeared in my life,

Like a fuck-up with a marching band,

And proved yourself inadequate, and pretty shit and full of it.

Although,

As I write this, I think, maybe it’s a powerful thing,

To know that an engagement ring,

Can’t validate anything remotely humane.

When you held me, it felt cold.

At most, it felt cold.

Published by LughLana

Hey there. My name is Ash. Whenever I feel lost or confused, I write. This blog is a project in releasing the poetry I would have kept locked up inside, otherwise. It's pronounced 'LOU-lah-NA.' Enjoy your visit!

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