When I think back to my first memories
Of you and my mother, it’s nothing
Special. You loved the demon bottle
More than you ever did or could
Love me, her and my baby sister.
The only one you loved was you.

The lies about imaginary overtime;
All excuses you gave to our mum
So you could spend time with
Your pint-sized mistress, followed
Up with a threesome with a couple
Of top-shelf whiskey shots.

Your rage and anger on your return,
Just because you had to leave
Them and come back to the sad
Reality of your “millstone life” –
The family that you hated for
Keeping you away from your demons.

The bipolar attitude you had with us;
One minute Mr Nice Guy, the next
You’re raging at me and my sister;
Throwing plates up the walls;
The swearing, shoving, and
The emotional and physical beat-downs.

You chose to walk out on the three
Of us the night before Mother’s Day.
I can’t believe you chose the coward’s
Way out,. No contact; no help or
Emotional or financial support.
Leaving me to try and keep the family together

In the aftermath of the destruction
Your absence caused for the two of us.
Spending days staring out the window
When you said “See you Saturday”.
Wondering what I’d done to you
To make you stay away – why you hated us.

Finally, getting the one thing you wanted;
Freedom from a family that loved you enough
To try and stop your drinking, your violent temper,
Your world of lies Into the arms of another woman.
Not one, but two half-sisters, one of whom you discarded
Because she wasn’t “normal” or “acceptable” to you.

Just when I thought the lying and cheating had stopped,
Grandad had to force you tell my half-sister about us.
Sixteen years of “You’re an only child”, the deceit was finally
About to catch up with you and crash around you.
Don’t think I blame her at all for anything; that responsibility
Rests entirely at yours and that replacement’s feet

The thing is that I’ve broken your fucking cycle, bitch.
I’ve spent my life doing the opposite of you, with my angels.
I’m not the perfect parent or husband – I wish I was to my family.
I’ve fought to get where I am in my life, I could have chosen
The easy route like you and run away, given up, lied and hidden.
We share DNA but that’s where the similarities end, motherfucker.
We are not the same, and never will be in this or any lifetime.

I know that when it all comes to an end, turning black,
game over, my heart gives out and I face whatever’s next,
My kids and grandchildren will remember me with a fondness
That you will never have or understand. No one will weep for you.
Maybe the publican you think is a good friend, a true mate, might.
Truth is, you’re nothing to us but a sad footnote in the family history.
A branch of the family tree I should have pruned years earlier.

—
I don’t think inside the box, I don’t think outside the box, I don’t even know where the box is.

Aspergers Poet
http://www.bob-christian.com