Skip to main content

A Teenager to her Father

 I wish I could go back.

Back to when I was falling asleep on you at church, with you gently playing with my hair.
Drifting in and out as the preacher's words float around my head.

I wish we were back there.
Back to the innocence and simplicity of life.
Back to when I was your pure perfect angel...unable to cause harm.

I wish we didn't have to fight.
About curfew and boys.
About right and wrong.

I wish we weren't so similar.
Stubborn and persistent.
Caring and opinionated.

I wish we weren't so different.
"Good versus Bad"
My hatred for confrontation, and your love of expression.

I wish you were my best friend.
Calling you when I'm caught.
Asking you for advice and homework help.

I wish I didn't screw up.
Or let you down over and over again.
I wish I hadn't bruised and broken your image of me.

I wish you still looked at me with hope.
I wish the disappointment would leave your eyes.
I wish I still made you smile,
and never made you cry
I wish you still gave prayers of gratitude for a daughter like me,
instead of asking God what you did wrong.
I wish you didn't feel shame for my actions,
and still felt proud of me
I wish you didn't blame yourself for my destruction...

I wish I could make things right again, just go back to those Sunday mornings in church...but instead I sit here, writing this, wondering how in the world it has come to this. How I let you down so many times that the hope has drained from your eyes, how I've let us drift so far, and how IVE messed up so badly that YOU feel like the failure. 

I wish that when I looked into your eyes I still felt like I could achieve anything, and that no matter what, your love for me was unbreakable. And I wish so badly that in your eyes I was still your flawless miraculous princess.

I'm so sorry dad..



Written October 13, 2011 as a senior in high school

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Lilac Sidewalk

  Same Sidewalk.  As Yesterday.  It catches you by surprise.   But today. They are here. Either smell or sight and you are called out. Silky petals. Our female elders peeking out with their violet irises The smell, oh the smell.  It swirls in your chest trying to coat your lungs, for just a little bit longer. Same Sidewalk. As Yesterday. You see the crispy. The sun held them just a little bit too long. Close enough, the smell sits still.  But the drops have drifted. Toasted and broiled. It’s gone so fast. Sad and True. I mourn for those that missed it. For those that will forget.  Same Sidewalk.  As Yesterday. Their abode remains season to season. Empty and forgotten Their graceful presence is now a brief memory. Every now and again, I remember what was once. And what will be again.

Cat Named Frank

  If you ever find yourself outside of a used bookstore, do not pass go. Open the door and happen upon stories, treasure maps, keys to other worlds, and maybe an old cat named Frank wandering the corridors. You’ll know it’s the right place based on the unorganized shelves and grungy carpet, the smell of dust, life, and letters will whirl under your nostrils. That same dust will hang limply in the air under the stream of sunlight in the stained windows. You will be picked, called out and born here. As you walk silently down each aisle, you won’t really need to read the title. And if you do, do it at the end. If you let yourself feel it, your soul will tell you. Drift a finger over the hump of each spine, each worn and scarred body, and when it says stop, Listen. Grasp it gently, and no matter what, smell it first. The old ones always call to me most. So many hands where mine lies now, so many shelves, tables, and beds it laid on before resting here. There are so many lives it saw, w...

Prompt: The Ghost of You

I see in you the pain she holds. The unbearable thought of not being what we need. Could I even recognize you. If you appeared as an outline of us. As a ghost in my dreams. Who you used to be, traces the outlines of your eyes. Fades into therapy sessions on the past. The ghost of you when you're stressed and overwhelmed. Your emotions taking hold. Ghost of you shoved deep. Until your stomach aches and your head pounds. The ghost of you hides in books and sleep. I feel like I carry the wounds of her with me but am not sure how to heal. I can feel her shadow when you hug me, an apology lingering on the too long of squeeze. Why can’t I seem to let go, of the ghost of you.