Rewriting Myself

there used to be something about fear written here
but now there’s a sleepless child, smiling.
there was a father, absentminded and handsome
now there’s hope and a future helping children just around the bend.
here was illustrated a broken home; tattered on the roof, shingles fallen from rain
but now ashes of what once held terror, an unsettling humble abode.

once the ashes of his own absent father, my grandfather resting in ruined peace,
now the memory of my child’s grandfather, living dead upon his or her future arrival.

even when I was young, instances of hope lingering beside me, injured within him,
like when mother sprinkled salt on my tongue, saving my heart any tremble after the next-door neighbor’s dog bit my leg.
now I lie, my wrist bathing in salt, scar tissue colliding with depression.
difficult to conceal; these bracelets nearly reach around, sweater cuffs too itchy.
years ago cutting was foreign; words concealed any pain,
but they evolved, my words are used to express anguish.

I do try, daily practicing goodbyes as I practice lies.
I do try, by asking him to hold his daughter close.
I do try, but I cannot make him love me any more than any less.
as the view into mornings break, I
give up trying; nothing changes.

no, things change—
there used to be something about fear written here.