The Stranger in Seattle

Sometimes I think I see him still,

in his old white Benz,

blasting rap like he used to.

 

Sometimes I think he will find us again,

even though we’ve moved out

and changed our numbers.

 

Sometimes there’s a part of me

that wants to call him up and

tell him I know why he was so angry-

that I forgive him for everything,

but another part of me

cannot help but still be angry

at him.

 

Sometimes I wish I could go to Seattle

and see if there is something there

that breeds sadness in people like him.

I want to know why he ran back there

after everything.

 

Sometimes I still see the hard lines of his face

in strangers I see on the street.

I have to fight the urge to run over to them

and ask why

everything reminds me of those four years

that his anger infiltrated our house,

why I still see him in my dreams:

the green bottle that was always in his hand,

the brown cloves always hanging from his mouth.

 

Sometimes I find myself hating

everything I know he loved.

I can never sit in a white Benz,

or watch the Superman movies,

or visit that one beach he always forced us to go to.

 

Sometimes I wish he had never existed,

or never been brought into my life,

but I know

I would not be the person

I am today

without him.

This poem is about: 
My family

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741