Bricks.

by Brian Sharp


There's a dead man sitting in my living room,
I hope he knows his irony isn't welcome here.
This rotting man with hair so black that it always looks wet-
he's my father.
He is no longer with us, he's with me.
My clandestine hemorrhage.
The desperation in his eyes haunt me throughout my day.
The opposite of a guardian angel.

He gave me a gold watch for last year's Christmas-
the color of a drunk's piss.
I guess that means he loves me.
I guess.
I guess I should know.
But I don't, his only truth to me has been
crossed out by repressed memories
that ravage at my hate without remorse.
I've never been one to allow sheaves of scars to go unnoticed,
but I was born with these. Bad genetics they say.
The watch doesn't fit,
but thank you dad.
For giving me time

You never let me forget.
Even now, you howl in my ears.
Reminders that your blood is of an addict,
and so is mine.
I've built this wall for a reason,
not to be protected from you,
but to save you from what's inside myself.