Damage Goods

Father dead as I turned twelve.
My mother had already left him before I had
turned ten.

Fifteen homes in eighteens years
A nomad in the desert traveled less.
What was home?
Only a room shared with violent assholes
who acted as thieves.
I owed everything in fear.
My mother ranted. Always ranted
Life was never good enough.

I never asked to be the strong one
the smart one.
The one who always did the "right" things.
But it was expected
All the rest could fuck up
my brothers,
my mother.
All fuck-ups.
But not me. I'm not like them you see.
I'm the good boy. Never quick to anger
The peacemaker. The negotiator.
No wrong I have ever done.

My brothers escaped into the streets,
alcohol, drugs, and felonious friends,
I never joined them all those long
year of dark escape.

Now I am older, "wiser".
My mother says she is proud of me
but a hole sits inside and a wall has climbed
high.
A cavernous black hole echoes and
flings the whispers of the past
back up.
A wall keeps it all at bay. Muted. The
good and the bad.
Perhaps a little drips through,
a trickle every now and then
of them both.

I know that I am not whole.
Friends are kept distant.
Certain desires are left unsatisfied
And a misguided anger always
rolls.

I am damaged.
But then again aren't we all.


by Philip Wardlow 2014