What legacy is left behind when all a father bequeaths is contempt?
You spent many years showing me contempt;
being divorced somehow made you exempt.
Nothing I did ever made you feel proud,
even at your end you played to the crowd.
Each word that fell from your lips told a lie,
and you saw in my eyes I thought you sly.
You couldn’t even speak well of my mother,
convincing others she made you suffer.
The day I saw you laid still left me cold;
delusions crumbled with your murky soul.
Grandmother’s arms sheltered me from the truth;
should have listened when she called you a brute.
With your death, came the knife to burst my dream,
and truth, I’d chased men who weren’t what they seemed.
You sliced me with your cold inheritance,
and in the end you finally broke my heart.
—H, mourning the man who shaped my ruin
