Father, a Wound That Won’t Heal
I lost my childhood
in the wreckage of yours.
11-years-old,
hands calloused from holding too much—
The weight of a life that was never mine to carry.
You brought strangers into our home,
Men with cruel smiles
and empty eyes.
They took pieces of me,
I’ll never get back.
I learned fear in rooms
that should have felt safe.
I learned to run, to fight, to freeze,
Because danger
was the only thing you gave me.
We moved,
from house to house,
Each eviction;
a funeral for the little stability I dreamed of.
I changed schools like I changed clothes,
Never belonging,
never staying long enough to try.
Every box packed was another reminder:
Nothing was ours.
Nothing was safe.
Loss was the only thing you made permanent.
You are the reason my heart races
When there’s no threat,
The reason my mind spins,
Unable to rest.
Anxiety. Depression. OCD. ADHD.
Labels for the chaos you planted inside me.
I’ve been in fight or flight my entire life—
But what happens when I’m too tired to fight?
You were never a father,
But sometimes—
God, sometimes—
you were a dad.
The way you laughed,
The way you hugged me
when the weight crushed us both.
You tried,
I know you did,
But how can I hold onto those moments
When the rest of you drowned them out?
You stole from me—
My safety, my childhood, my sanity.
And still, I search for you in the streets,
Homeless and broken,
A ghost of the man you once tried to be.
How can I let you go
When you’ve already lost everything?
How can I expect you to try
When you have nothing left to fight for?
I want to escape you,
but I can’t.
You are the reason I learned to survive,
And the reason I never learned how to live.
You are a wound that won’t heal,
A shadow that never leaves.
You are my father, my burden, my ghost.
I carry you, even as you crush me,
Because part of me still hopes
That one day,
You’ll carry yourself.