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A Domestic

Let me make this clear I don’t get growing pains –
You are getting I-was-holding-on-too-tight pains
Where your fingers ache from where they were
White-knuckled on the careering dashboard of my teenage years.
I’m allowed to disappoint you.
I think I’m entitled to.
When you start every argument by informing me
Of my viscousness and coldness
And end it by telling me you’ve nothing more to say
With a sneer of disgust.

I was nothing more than what you made me.
Don’t compare me to your father.
Or mine for that matter –
Your hatred of him cannot be mine to bear.
I learnt to grow by myself and still you want me to be
Some prodigy of you but it’s impossible.
It takes two to tango.

If I scared you – I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be harsh.
But the truth is I don’t know why I love you
And I think you lie to me and then lie about lying.
I can’t feel safe around that
Because I went where you put me.

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