Remorse at the kitchen table
I bought the kind of bread dad used to bring home
The kind with olives and rosemary,
it tasted like ten years of regret
.
I hate that I hate them
Hate that I never will not
.
The times I was abandoned
hands unwanted on my waist-
they can never erase them with
their " I love you's "
.
I am beyond the
help they could
ever give me
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