Seren J.H. Wolfe

a long time ago, in a household far enough away
my grip held my mother in place
as my sister screamed "I don't care", braced
quarter to midnight, still numb to catching strays.

it should have been someone else
who told my mother to leave it be
but it's only my dad that she sees
the never-ending war of who could care less.

all my youth was spent caring too much
spending hit die on a DC I couldn't fathom
trading my childhood for the adult chasm
poor habits and bad relationships was all I could clutch.

a long time ago, on a beautiful drizzling day
I stood in the bedroom of a deceased matriarch
fending off tears before walking on the music's mark
wondering if my family would, in the end, stay away.

my sister, in black, arrived late to walk me down the aisle.
in the back, my mother sat, silent as my father's grave.
so for him, I would be brave
and I met my husband at the end with a smile.

being denied girlhood memories is a different kind of pain
they cannot be replicated, the time has gone by
no photos, no samples, twisting arms of dry eyes
I admit I don't know how to be rid of the stain.

hands held out in good faith
but have been silently denied
and I still feel bleary-eyed
so instead I smoke an eighth
because my anguish creates.