How To Create A Broken Girl.

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Deadbeat number one. 
You walked out of my life before I even got to learn what your skin smelt like.
I'm sure if I dug way back in my locked away, 
too young to remember, 
too innocent to care, memories, 
Id find the only one of you I have.
Holding me for the first time. 
Unsure if I was yours or the man who fathered my older brother's. 
Unsure of what you were doing there.
I was told that you had love in your eyes.
So when they did a DNA test and found out I had your blood running through my veins, 
why did you run?
If there was love in your eyes, 
where did it go after you handed me back to the nurses?
Why did you leave me?
Why, more importantly, did you destroy your daughter, like the one before me?
The only differance between me, and the girl who would be called my big sister if you hadn't ran from her and if she hadn't taken her life at 16, 
is that I never knew you.
I never got the chance to love you before you walked out of my life.
But instead of taking my life, 
I got to live my life chasing men who would only run. 
Because that's what I learned men do.
And that's the only thing I learned from you.

 

Dead beat number two.
When I first met you,
My best friend was 3 months pregnant with your child.
We all went walking together in the rain
and when you texted me later that night,
I responded.
And when you texted me 3 months later.
I responded.
And when you begged me to come over,
Swore you and her were over,
I came over.
Your long hair, long arms, and bad boy swag, turned me on.
And when you told me I was better then she was,
I believed you.
As if this, and not the fact that I had daddy issues and was desprate for love, turned you on.
And I lost my virginity.
Then you ran.
Because that's what men do.
They run.
Two days later, 
I found out that later that night you had her over, 
in the same bed.
6 months later, she gave birth to your daughter.
And you ran.
Because that's what men do.
They run.

 

Deadbeat number three.
When I first met you,
Your bad boy, meth smoking, not caring about anything, self, turned me on.
When you told me that you thought I was beautiful,
I believed you.
Like it was this, not the fact that my body was already a slave to men, that turned you on.
When I first let you slip into me,
Everything bad about you,
Felt so damn good.
So when I realized I was in love with you,
I told myself, 'no'.
Which was so damn good.
Because then I found out you had a daughter.
A daughter you never saw.
Because you ran out on her.
Because that's what men do.
They run.

 

Deadbeat number four.
When I met you,
My heart beat like I had never felt before.
I always said seeing you for the first time was a fairytale.
Your truck, cigarettes, and sex offender status, turned me on.
And when you told me you wanted to 'fix everything that was broken in me'.
I believed you.
Like it was this, and not the fact that because I was already broken made it easier for you to get inside of me, that turned you on.
And when I fell head over heels for the country bad boy with no teeth,
I told myself, 'sure'.
The first time you called me stupid, I thought it slipped out. 
It was just an accident.
It wouldn't happen again.
But then other words started slipping out,
Like bitch, slut, whore, and the one that stung the most, worthless.
And when I slapped you across the face,
You ran.
Because that's what men do.
They run.

 

Deadbeat two and four.
When I found out I was pregnant.
I was scared shitless.
I didn't know which of you was the father.
I went the whole pregnancy trying to convince myself and everyone around me that the father was the lesser of the two evils.
I let them believe that even though the bad boy cowboy called me worthless, at least he didn't have a track record of a worthless father, and that he is and will be a great father.
And when I told him I was pregnant, 
Convincing him it had to be his,
He ran.
Because that's what men do.
They run.

 

Deadbeat number four.
I'm sorry.

 

Deadbeat number two.
I'm sorry.

 

Deadbeat number two.
No wait. I'm not.
Actually.
I hate you.
Actually.
I despise you.
When I look at our son, 
I find myself searching to see if there is any peice of you showing up in him.
So far,
There isn't.
And I pray there never is.

 

One month after I gave birth, 
I found out he was yours.

 

Deadbeat number four.
I'm sorry.

 

Deadbeat number two.
The first time you met your son,
Your second born,
I saw love in your eyes.
Then two weeks later,
You ran.
Because that's what men do.

They run.

 

Deadbeat number one.
See what you did to me?

 

Deadbeat number two, three, and four.
See what he did to me?

 

Deadbeat number two.
You now have three kids.

And are a father to none.
See what you're doing to them?

 

Deadbeat number three.
You now have two kids.
And are a father to none.
See what You're doing to them?

 

Deadbeat number four.
Don't have children.

 

Deadbeat number one.
You now have six kids.
And a father to three.

 

Deadbeat number one.
I'm glad your not doing this to them.

 

Deadbeat number two.
Stay running. 
Don't come around.
Do what men do and run.
Run until you are so far away that our son will never even learn your name.
Run, because I promise you, he will not grow up in your shadow. 
Run, because I promise you, he will not do this to his kids.

 

Deadbeat number two.

Our son will not be a deadbeat like you.

 

Deadbeat number three.
My son will not be a deadbeat like you.

 

Deadbeat number four.
Please, do not have children.

 

Deadbeat number one.
Thank you.

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