She skates so elegantly,
On thin ice.
She thought she was pregnant
For a day
But through the mist of woeful, bitter tears
Of buyer's remorse,
She misread the test instructions, and didn't realize she wasn't.
Sigh, I guess.
She'll take her lessons on the rocks.
And belly back up to the bar
For more. Thanks.
The flesh cringes when she's awake.
She is a never ceasing war of unpleasant, unbearable noise.
Her voice cuts - lays low our walls
Of peaceful slumber
Leaving shards of shattered nerves all around,
Casualties in a psych war.
We quit wondering where we went wrong,
And ponder the possibility
That at conception she was planning this whole thing out.
Abortion is not retroactive.
Some cultures would see her throat cut open wide,
Her life drained from her,
No future. No settling. No marriage. No children
But we, we punish ourselves,
By turning gray.
By withering with age more quickly than before.
When she was just a mischievous brat.
Her father, never mindful of his honor,
Keeps a lonely vigil each night,
So that the girl in search of herself
Or something else more fun
Still, she tries. And still he waits for her to try.
Or surprised. Anymore.
Her friends are all like herself.
A solar system where all the planets gravitate toward each other,
Creating a giant, walking, talking Asshole
Of annoyance where ever it moves in the universe.
She was the one we planned. The one we ordered
From on high, with high hopes.
Dashed, and down in flames.
She had the temerity
To remind me of my own
But that was different, I say.
I was. .... .
Younger. Much. Younger.
I was done sowing my oats at...
I see now, where I went wrong.
I should never have told her
About my youth.