what father?

My father once said to me,

“good luck, kid”

there was malice

in his voice,

there were tears

in my eyes

and I didn’t understand

why we were fighting,

but this was a dance

I knew the steps to

like I knew my father’s anger

was a poison that had been

seeped into my very bones

even then,

his anger was the most

consistent thing he ever

gave to me,

and a broken part of me

craved it, because at least

then he was paying attention

to me

and my father,

he never knew how to

be a father,

moving an hours long train

ride away and wondering

why I was afraid to stay

with him, this man

that I hardly knew

and only ever saw

when I looked in the

mirror

and I can’t remember

when my father stopped

being my hero,

when I stopped wanting

to be like him,

when protector became tormenter,

but it’s been long enough

to make me fearful

and resentful of this man,

whose face and mannerisms

I so happen to share

and and and

my father once said to me,

“good luck, kid,”

and I almost said back to him,

“I don’t need good luck,

I just need a father”

but I don’t think that’s

true anymore, and if

there’s one thing my father

taught me,

I should never tell a lie