Why is it that the memories I hold
are the ones of distress and feeling so low–
my childhood seems so dark and bleakly cold.
I remember feeling a heightened dread
of the people I looked to for protection and love.
They were menacing and devoid of the nurturing I craved
and didn’t notice their girl was filled with sadness and pain.
There’s a sense of aloneness and abandonment that pervades
my memories of home life with an insidious unease.
You’re not there, you’re not present–and even when you are,
your mind is on yourself and your own interests.
You’re so emotionally gone that I barely felt your presence.
I remember the fighting and screaming and vile words thrown
about in the wee hours of the morning as I was trying to sleep,
and sometimes awakening to a drunken man on the floor.
There’s tension and anger that permeates my aura and
I’m so sensitive and perceptive that I felt every tremor.
I’ve pulled into myself all the hurts and the fears;
I’ve become a black hole where no light can appear.
I’m depressed and apprehensive and can hardly eat–
I have no appetite for what envelops me.
I’m constantly self-conscious and compare myself to others
all who appear to have attentive mothers and fathers.
Oh, how I wished I could have what they had,
a bright, happy home where parents felt delight at my sight.
I still feel the anguish of those long ago years and can’t quite
shake those feelings of grief and worry–
because you never once uttered the words: “Gayle, I’m sorry”.
For Monday’s Morning Prompt: Grieving