I only wanted love from you, but loving you was pain –
the laughter one day, followed by grief and terror
from whatever state you happened to be in.
I ask myself, “Who were you?”
You discarded me like an object and
closed off that side of yourself
that seemed to contain the Devil.
What does it mean to be your son?
The Devil I spoke of – a dark energy,
the shadow self that sometimes hates
the world and loathes the person I am.
People tell me I’m a good man, that
I have a gentle heart – but I don’t feel it most days.
I feel ashamed, dirty, pathetic.
I’ve tried to wash myself clean –
I want purity, enlightenment.
I want to forgive you, but maybe
forgiveness is never complete.
A part of me still hates you and is glad
you’re dead – I no longer must tolerate
your abuse, and you can no longer hurt
people and bring pain into the world.
I put on a solemn smile at your funeral,
an unbearable afternoon where people
told us you were a good man, and the many
loose women from your life shared pictures of
you with my mother, and your addict friends
showed up in sweatpants.
But you were not a good man, and God will
forgive me for saying that. How can I hate you
and still love myself? How can I hate that
which created me?