Something More

I think about the word "love"

like a child on their birthday.

The celebration of coming into a new world

-or coming out of it.

 

I think about the looks of adoration

a mother gave

when you accomplished

the most mundane of tasks,

like you won the nobel peace prize,

as if you were capable of being

more

than just an infant,

As if love were infinite

(but it's not)

 

If only I had known this before I blew out

the candles on my birthday cake.

I wish-

I wish a mother's love was infinite.

I wish fathers were like feathers

and families were like fairy tales.

(but they're not)

 

And there's an infinite amount of ways

to find this out.

And there's an infinite amount of ways

to say, "I love you"

and not mean it.

 

But they say it anyway

to fill the gaps that silence fills

with reminders of everything they did wrong.

As if those words

could erase the possibility of failure.

"I love you honey",

"love you kiddo"

(I think they did)

 

But it doesn't change the fact

that time is limitless,

and wives aren't permanent,

and children hide in cabinets

because harsh words travel through space

and bedroom walls.

But apparently it's not apparent

that parents can yell

and children can hear

(I wish it was)

 

Maybe then you would listen.

 

Fear is easy to hear

when you stop yelling

over spilt milk

and start counting

the times you catch her

hiding food in her bedroom

because she's too damn afraid

of what you might have to say

at the dinner table.

 

It took me a long time to realize

that it wasn't my fault;

-that grown-ups don't grow up

and fathers don’t show up,

but I think it's about time that I give up

on the idea that I'll live up

to any expectation

my parents ever had of me.

(No)

 

I'll be something more.

 

This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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