Last Time

I listened to that song again today,

Ended up crying the night away,

Maybe I should’ve said it to your face,

I’m not sure how I became this disgrace,

Tell me,

Why don’t you care at all?

I know I’m not pretty or smart,

I don’t have any talent in an art,

I can’t sing too well and I can’t cut straight,

But I’d like to think my cooking’s pretty great,

So maybe I’ll just fix myself in any way,

Just to become better so he’ll stay,

No, you’ll never see the improved me,

But hopefully he’ll stick around and see,

I don’t know why I wasn’t enough,

I guess now I should start to act tough,

And so this is the last poem I’ll write,

I’ll cry for the last time tonight,

Dad, I’m never thinking of you again.

By Anne Bourguignon

I know I’m not supposed to write my real name, but if you ever read this, I hope you’ll know I don’t hate you. I don’t loathe you. I don’t find the simple idea of you repulsive. I’m just sick of crying over you for what you did. I’m over you now Dad. I moved on, and I’m damn glad I did.