To speak poorly of my father is something I've avoided my entire life.
I've maintained this hope in him throughout our relationship that he'll pull through.
I believed every word he said, dreaded Past's victim, enduring friend.
It didn't matter to me if he actually pushed my mom down the stairs,
Or that one of the nights I felt our closest he expressed with slurred words and a watery, drunken stare.
Without an ounce of contempt, anticipation was eager for his return from the three month jail sentence he never quite explained a cause for.
I packed every game console he raised me on and brought them over to celebrate and play, just like the days before the girl he never got along with became his home.
In comparison to my optimism, the fighting could never break my bones, but only bruise them.
In fact, I started to get used to it until it turned to death threats, thrown phones, and the times it kept the neighbors awake.
I could even forget those times, at least until it continued in front of my newborn, neglected brother.
Oh, my brother, I remember your birthday because I saw the final Star Wars the next day and I swore it was two of the best things that could've happened at the same time.
Such joy was shot to find you were born with all those drugs in your system.
That didn't keep me from appreciating you, no matter how hard it's been for you to interact and listen.
I blame it on them and embrace you for all that you are, Logan.
Every New Years he'd always tell me,
"Next year will be better, I promise."
Without an ounce of doubt in my heart, I carried those words with me.
And the one year he finally became a man and got his own apartment I feel he was at his best.
I thank you for the two years I could see you and the only times I had to deal with fighting were on Christmas.
I thought you'd leave her and stop going to bars, but I found out you're much weaker than I could've possibly imagined, by far.
Learning your loneliness, addressing addictions, fighting meth with marijuana.
Normalcy within our family could only have been measured up to the rest of the broken-homed children.
Now, don't get me wrong, things could have been so much worse.
At least when you cheated on my mom and started using again we had her to keep us loved and safe and away.
All my memories are a big, jumbled up mess.
I remember childish affection, unending, until you gave up and moved back in to reclaim the throne of trailer trash tyranny.
Tell me why again you wanted to "Stay Together for the Kids"?
Since your return to that heap of garbage you built into a shelter labeled, "Home.", I've found there to be no more room for my rejected heart.
You can pin whatever you want on me, claiming there to be, in my life, a lack of appropriate priority.
You're the one that can't afford gas or electricity; the ever-faithful investment in cigarettes, firmly established as "Necessity."
Don't even begin to tell me that because you're a pastor's kid that you understand the Word of God better than your offspring.
Instead of understanding the convictions of truth and reality you have been ever evading since the age of 14, worshipping the god of pride, rebellion, and ecstasy.
All I see is hope, and all you see is immovable burden.
All I see is change; all you breathe has been breath, the same.
"Paying the Pied Piper", you claim you're merely reaping what you've sewn.
When behold, I find sojourned seeds now at seventeen, spread throughout the garden of your greed.
All your sustenance can be traced to tables that hold feasts of the fresh fruit of failure.
Your self-loathing can be traced back to your current upheld glory.
"I am what I am"
You tossed your birthright as a son, and have forgotten that you are called to be a father.
You are what you are.
Don't speak to me of demons until you speak against the ones you breed.